


Head Over Feet

by Robin_tCJ



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 2017 Captain America/Iron Man Big Bang, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Angst, Bondage, Canonical Minor Character Death, Casual Sex, Confessions of love, Depression, Disfigurement, Drug Use, Edging, Emails, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exposition, Frottage, Gaslighting, Idiots in Love, Infidelity, M/M, Manual stimulation, Mental Health Issues, Mourning, Netflix and Chill, Oral Sex, PTSD, Pining, Rhodey is a good friend, Rimming, Scars, Temporary Character Death, Tony can’t catch a break, accidental confessions, assumed major character death, background Bucky/Nat - Freeform, background implied Pepper/Rhodey, drug overdose, emotionally stunted, human Jarvis - Freeform, infidelity (not related to main pairing), intentional breakup, mentions of severe injury, mentions of torture, no coping mechanisms, some Marvel 616 cameos, temporary Tony Stark/Rumiko Fujikawa, temporary Tony Stark/Tiberius Stone, under negotiated kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-01-30 03:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_tCJ/pseuds/Robin_tCJ
Summary: It had sounded like a good idea at the time. Tony Stark, genius and heir to the Stark fortune, didn't expect to fall in love with the kind, handsome soldier he'd picked up at a bar that he had only gotten into because of a particularly well-crafted fake ID. He didn't expect to spend the best week of his life with a funny, wonderful artist who would be shipping off to war in only days.And he definitely didn't expect that soldier to die before they could even try to build something.He tries to move on with his life and find a way to feel whole, but after one too many disappointments, Tony gives up on the idea of happiness altogether.Of course, then he finds himself on a street in New York, covered in coffee and having the shock of his life.





	1. Save tonight and fight the break of dawn

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic is a real labour of love. It has taken me months to finish it, after a brief(ish) hiatus from it during a period of writer's block. But I managed to finish it in time for the Cap-IM Big Bang, so here it is! It's the longest thing I've ever written, and I'm actually pretty proud of it.
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to [dapperanachronism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperanachronism/works) for the patient beta work, and for helping me re-work the scenes that just weren't working.
> 
> As this fic was part of the 2017 Cap-IM Big Bang, it is accompanied by some magnificent, beautiful artwork by the wonderful and talented [deruzard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deruzard/pseuds/deruzard) and [sleepyoceanprince](http://sleepyoceanprince.tumblr.com/). They both made lovely pieces to go along with the fic – some of which are NSFW. I'll link them in the end notes, but I'm also going to embed them in the fic where they belong. Show them some love, you guys, they worked so hard and made such amazing pieces.
> 
> Thanks so much to both of you for choosing to draw something for this fic, I'm so glad I got to work with you!

Tony Stark doesn’t want to be here. Normally, sure. Grinding guitars, blinding strobe lights, the smell of pot and whisky and sweat. Normally, he’d be all over this. He’d be crowd surfing and probably finding someone to slip into a dark corner with. He’d be up at the front, basking in the deafening drum beats and the wailing singer.

But not today. Today, he’d rather be anywhere else. He’d rather be in class. He’d rather be in a _humanities_ class. Hell, he’d rather sit through an entire family dinner with his parents and their stuffy friends with marriage-appropriate daughters than be here right now.

“Nice shirt!” someone hollers at him over the music, and Tony rolls his eyes, not even glancing back before he flips his middle finger up in the general direction of the shout.

He hears another snicker as he heads toward the bar, his face set in a scowl. He shoulders his way through the crowd until he can lean his elbows on the slightly sticky surface until the bartender glances his way.

An eyebrow goes up, and Tony puts on his best “what the fuck are you looking at” glower. The bartender doesn’t cow at all, so he ups the intensity of said glower.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks, glancing down at Tony’s shirt and then back up.

Tony puffs out a sigh. “I need about nine glasses of your strongest whisky. I mean, if you wanna just mainline it into my bloodstream I’m sure I can find you a vein.”

The bartender gives him an unimpressed glare. “You got ID?”

Tony rolls his eyes and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket before flipping it open and pulling out his ID. Well, it’s not exactly _his_. Well, no, it’s his, he bought it, but it’s not exactly _authentic_. It’s a good fake, though, so even though the bartender is taking a real close look at it ( _Oh my God_ , thinks Tony, _I’m 19, it’s not like I look 12, just give me the fucking drink_ ), it passes muster.  

The bartender passes it back, then turns and grabs a bottle of whisky from the shelf, and pours two fingers into a short glass. Tony’s about to reach for it, but the bartender doesn’t hold it out for him – instead, he reaches over to the side and pulls out a little paper umbrella and drops it into the drink.

Tony glares at him. “You know what? I don’t even care. I will take your little umbrella and I will embrace it because it comes in the glass of whisky. Now gimme.”

The bartender’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh as he holds the glass out. Tony takes it from him, plucks out the little umbrella – it’s a vomit-inducing shade of pastel pink, which Tony is fully aware matches his shirt perfectly – and tosses back the drink, relishing the burn of it down his throat. He immediately thrusts the glass forward again, tipping it toward the bartender in invitation. Or insistence. Either way.

The bartender gives him a smile with slightly more respect in it and pours Tony another, which he slams back just as fast as the first. He’s holding his glass out for a third when a dark hand wraps itself around his wrist and pushes it down.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Rhodey says smugly as he pulls Tony’s wrist – and still-empty glass, sadly – away from the bartender.

“Come on, Rhodey, there’s no way I can spend the rest of this night _sober_.”

“There’s no way you’re getting off that easy,” Rhodey snarks back at him, dragging him away from the sweet, sweet oblivion promised by the bar and its assortment of liquor.

“There was nothing in the bet that said I had to wear this and be sober at the same time, I would have remembered that and I never would have agreed to it.”

“Oh, it wasn’t in the original bet, I’m just making you do it anyway, because it’s funny.”

“There are hot people here, Rhodey. There are _sexy_ people. It’s a _rock concert_ in a college bar. If I’m not going to be getting banged, I at least want to get bombed.”

“If someone can’t look past your T-shirt, then they don’t deserve you anyway,” Rhodey says, his voice syrupy and patronizing. But his eyes are a little soft and serious around the edges, and it makes Tony feel an uncomfortable squirm in his gut.

“I don’t think they can see anything _but_ my shirt,” Tony grouses, allowing himself to be pulled through the crowd.

It’s a good bar, and it’s a good show. It’s packed because it’s a Saturday night and one of the better local bands, Warriors Three, is throwing a CD release party. It’s also the first nice day in weeks, with the sun peeking out to melt the slush for most of the day, giving all the local college campuses a hormonal rush of spring and sunshine.

But Tony… Tony had made a terrible error in judgement. Tony had been sure he could go two weeks without publicly calling out the professor in their aeronautical engineering class. It should have been so simple. But then they’d had to sit through the lecture on wing structure and Tony had lost it. He’d gone 12 days before he’d just _had_ to stand up and explain to Professor Prentiss just exactly how torsion springs work, and how with proper design, if Prentiss didn’t have his head stuck firmly up his ass, it would be a more efficient and cost effective design, and Rhodey had just started laughing.

It’s not Tony’s fault. The guy is an idiot, and an entire lecture hall of MIT students was about to come out of there believing his half-assed bullshit. Tony was just doing the school a _service_.

And now, Tony is at basically the party of the year, surrounded by hot, pulsing college bodies, alcohol, and the low undercurrent of lust found only at rock concerts in college bars, and he’s wearing a pastel pink My Little Brony shirt that’s at least a size too small for him, featuring a cartoon rainbow and a pony wearing, of all things, a party hat. It’s so small that it rides up a little, so it’s practically a crop top, and he looks ridiculous.

And he’s _sober_.

Rhodey drags him up into the crowd, where sweaty bodies are writhing and bouncing and rubbing against one another, and Tony resigns himself. Rhodey’s been a good friend, he supposes the least he can do is stick it out, get through the evening and enjoy the show. Rhodey never seems to want Tony to pay for things, to buy him things, and even though he won’t sleep with Tony (“I swear, Tones, if I were even a little bit into guys yours is the first ass I’d take a crack at,”) he still does things for Tony, like makes sure Tony eats and doesn’t get too far up his own head and tries to keep Tony from pissing off Professor Prentiss.

Fails. But tries.

So Tony takes a deep breath, and recites his inner mantra. He is Tony Stark. Stark men are made of iron.

And, quite frankly, men made of iron can wear My Little Brony shirts to Warriors Three concerts in Boston and still look damn fine. He can buy this bar. Anyone in this bar who has a problem with his My Little Brony bet-losing shirt could easily be banned from said bar if Tony took the time to buy it.

So, there’s that.

Once he’s made the decision not to be embarrassed by how ridiculous he looks, and instead to embrace it and enjoy the attention, he starts having fun. It really is a good band, and a fun bar, and Rhodey’s not letting him get wasted but he has managed to have a few beers so he’s just on the right side of tipsy when he sees the guy.

Holy shit, the guy.

There are two of them, but Tony’s eyes are drawn to the blond. His shoulders are at least as wide as Tony’s legs are long, but his torso narrows down into a V, narrow waist and plumply muscled backside doing absolutely sinful things to a pair of soft-looking, worn jeans. The blond’s navy long-sleeved T-shirt does nothing to hide the muscle definition in his back, and the fabric stretches tightly over his body. He’s leaning with one arm on the bar, talking to another guy, and Tony hates that guy with every fiber of his being because that guy, the guy with grey eyes and brown hair and a not-too-shabby body himself is getting all of Blond Hottie’s attention.

Tony kind of wants to lick him. Well, more than kind of.

He also wants to hit on him, but he looks down at his pink T-shirt in dismay. He wishes he were wearing something else. Literally anything else. If he’d been allowed to choose his own clothing today, it would have been a threadbare AC/DC shirt that hugged his body just right, showed that yeah, he’s thin and kind of wiry but he has muscles and they’re lean and sinewy. It would have showed off his own narrow waist, and not pulled the eye straight into Pinkie Pie’s anime-eyed gaze, detracting from what Tony has cultivated as a rather delectable hind region.

He seriously can’t be considering going to hit on that tall drink of water over there wearing what he’s wearing, can he? He’d resigned himself to going home alone tonight, to spending the weekend working on his thesis or his robotics.

But that _ass._

Tony twitches his shoulders, rolling them a little so his body relaxes just a little, and he puts a little bit of a swagger in his hips as he makes his way to the bar. He’s going to compensate for this fucking shirt somehow, and if that ‘somehow’ is being as smoldering and confident as possible, well, he’s Tony fucking Stark and that’s not going to be a problem.

He waves down the bartender, who’s used to his shirt by now and doesn’t comment while handing Tony a beer. Tony leans against the treated wood close enough to feel the blond guy’s body heat radiating off his back, and he clears his throat a little.

Blondie’s head turns fast, eyes wide in surprise.

“Oh, sorry, am I in your way?”

Tony blinks. The guy scooches away from him and gives him an apologetic look, and Tony wants to respond, wants to say “oh, no, sugar, you’re right where I want you to be,” or “if you really want to move I’ve got some great ideas as to where you can move to,” or  “let me blow you,” but he can’t say any of those things because he’s completely struck dumb by the guy’s intense blue eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes. His mouth is a plump pink, cheekbones and jaw like cut glass, and half of Tony wants to just drop trou and present right there.

Mostly the lower half.

“Uh… hey,” Tony says brilliantly, like the genius he is.

Blondie smirks, eyes sparkling in a way that makes the bottom drop out of Tony’s stomach. His eyes flick down to Tony’s chest, barely an instant to take in Tony’s T-shirt, then back up to Tony’s face. “Laundry day?”

Tony wonders if he hit his head, because he has clearly lost track of the conversation already, and it hasn’t been long enough to classify as a conversation yet.

“Sorry?”

Blondie gestures at his shirt. “All your other clothes in the laundry?” The smirk has evolved into a twisted smile, as though he’s trying not to burst out laughing at Tony’s T-shirt – and, presumably, the dumbfounded look on his face.

Tony takes a deep breath and bites the inside of his cheek – hard – to kick his brain back into gear. Right. Tony Stark: made of iron, and a suave motherfucker.

“Lost a bet,” he shrugs, leaning subtly into Blondie’s space. “What, you don’t think I pull it off okay?”

“I’m mostly surprised you managed to pull it on,” Blondie grins. The teasing has no bite, though, so Tony takes a sip of his beer, making sure to tilt his head back a little so his throat stretches and bobs as he swallows.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Goddammit.”

Tony’s eyes flick to the dark-haired guy leaning against the bar on Blondie’s other side, and he’s rolling his eyes and huffing out a breath. Tony suddenly wonders if he’s made a mistake – they hadn’t been leaning into each other’s space, usually he can spot “this is my boyfriend rawr” possessive vibes a mile off. Not that he’s sure it would have stopped him, but he might have waited until the boyfriend went to the bathroom or something.

Then again, maybe Tony’s pegged it wrong another way, and he’s about to get his Pinkie Pie-wearing ass dragged out back and pounded into the pavement for daring to hit on a red-blooded ‘Murican male (git ‘er done!) football player who ‘don’t cotton to that gay stuff’.

“Buck,” Blondie starts, his tone admonishing but affectionate.

“I’m just – we’ve been here five minutes and you’re already getting hit on. You know what? Go. Fine. Maybe I’ll have better luck if you’re off the market.”

Blondie blushes, and it’s a deep, gorgeous flush that makes Tony lick his lips a little. His dark-haired friend grins, letting Tony know his intention in the comment was _definitely_ to embarrass Blondie.

“Tony,” Tony says by way of introduction, tipping his bottle toward Blondie and choosing to ignore the side conversation.

“Steve,” says Blondie, smiling and holding out a broad hand to shake. Tony takes it and gently lets his thumb slide along Steve’s skin, feeling proud of the way Steve flushes again.

“Yep, ignore me. That’s fine, I’m used to being invisible, it’s what makes me good at my job,” says the dark-haired guy, rolling his eyes and sighing dramatically.

Steve grins back at Tony. “That’s Bucky. Don’t pay him any attention – like he said, he’s used to it.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” Tony says, not taking his eyes off Steve’s.

“All right. Don’t mind me, I’m just going to get a drink and go home with a serial killer, probably end up chopped into little pieces in the Charles River,” says Bucky.

Steve doesn’t even glance his way, and Tony can’t help but smile at him. He hopes it looks debonaire, and not goofy like he thinks it might. Steve’s got the bluest eyes, really.

“So, what do you think of the band?” Tony asks, leaning just a little further into Steve’s space. He smells like some kind of spicy aftershave with a hint of vanilla.

“They’re really good,” Steve says, turning his body to face Tony more squarely. “Have you heard them before?”

“Yeah, they play the college bars all the time,” Tony tells him. “I haven’t seen you around here before. You go to Boston College?” A guy built like Steve has got to be a quarterback, and Boston College’s football team is, if Tony recalls, ranked in the 60s in the NCAA.

“Oh, no, I’m not from around here. I came up to visit Buck and check out MCAD before I deploy.”

“Soldier?”

“ _De oppresso liber_ ,” Steve says with a deferential nod of his chin.

“Green Berets? You must be able to bench press me.”

“I’m surprised you knew the Latin,” Steve says, quirking an eyebrow up.

Tony snorts. “It’s _Latin_ , I can do Latin in my sleep. Besides, I’ve got a friend in the Air Force, and I’ve spent many a night listening to his drunken rambling about the military cliques.”

Steve laughs a little, and Tony is well and truly smitten.

They talk for a long time, about nothing in particular. Tony learns that Steve joined the army because his father was a soldier, and he’d wanted to follow in his footsteps. He tells Steve the exact terms of the Pinkie Pie shirt bet, and tells the story with wild gestures and his best attempt at Professor Prentiss’ arrogant pompousness, which has Steve laughing hard enough to throw his head back and clutch at his chest. Steve plans to go to Massachusetts College of Art and Design in between deployments. He’s a green beret, so he’s in it for the long haul, but he can take workshops when he’s stateside and follow his real passion, art. Tony will be heading back to L.A. after next year, once he’s got his last doctorate, to head up the R&D department at his father’s company.

Tony doesn’t tell Steve he’s a Stark, and Steve doesn’t ask. He’s suitably impressed by Tony’s genius and fast track through school, but he doesn’t seem to realize he’s speaking to the heir of the Stark fortune.

Or he doesn’t care.

Either way, sometime around midnight, as the band is finishing their set and the crowd is starting to thin, Tony puts his empty beer bottle on the bar and waves his credit card in the general direction of the bartender, not taking his eyes off Steve.

“You wanna get out of here?”

The tips of Steve’s ears redden into a blush. “Did you want to, I dunno, go somewhere else? Different bar?”

Tony stares for a moment. “You’re adorable. No, handsome, I’m inviting you home with me.”

Steve blushes more furiously, eyes flicking down to the floor.

“Hey, look, if you’re not interested, that’s fine. We can do something else. Find a diner, get some pancakes. I’m just enjoying your company.”

Steve takes a deep breath and meets Tony’s eyes again, and there’s no mistaking the hunger and determination there. “I’m interested.”

“Oh. Well, that’s – that’s good, then. I’m, um… I should go find Rhodey. Tell him I’m heading out.”

“I should find Bucky,” Steve says, not moving. If anything, he leans in a little closer to Tony.

“That’s – yeah. That’s a good idea,” Tony murmurs, leaning forward as well. They inch closer and closer, and just as Steve’s lips are about to touch his, so close he can feel Steve’s breath puffing across his face, he hears a ‘whoop’ from behind him.

Of course.

Tony drops his head, chin to chest, in defeat. “Dammit.”

“I’m sorry sir, you seem to have overlooked the fact that the gentleman you’re making eyes at is wearing a tiny Pinkie Pie T-shirt,” Rhodey announces, grinning at Steve while he rests an elbow on Tony’s shoulder.

“I hate you the most out of everybody,” Tony groans. “Why are you so horrible?”

“You love me, don’t front,” Rhodey tells him, sticking out a hand in greeting and turning his attention back to Steve. “So what bullshit story did he come up with to explain the shirt? Lost his in a magnificent bar brawl? Gave his own to a poor, misbegotten soul? Bachelorette party solidarity?”

“Steve, this is Rhodey,” Tony says into his chest. “I take no responsibility for his dickishness.”

“Actually, he told me he lost a bet against you,” Steve shrugs, and Tony feels Rhodey stiffen beside him in surprise.

“He did? Like, the actual truth?”

Tony looks at him. “Why won’t you go away? Please go away.”

“Huh,” Rhodey muses, not making any move to leave. He does, however, stop leaning on Tony’s shoulder and straightens up a little.

“Jim Rhodes,” he says, shaking Steve’s hand properly.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve tells him with a nod.

“So, I’m heading out with Carol,” Rhodey says, turning to Tony.

“Oh, are you guys on again?”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “Don’t forget to wash all those windows in your glass house, Tones,” he says. “Are you good to make your way home on your own?”

Tony sits up and grins at Steve. “Oh, I’m good.”

Steve blushes again, and Tony wants to watch it happen all night long.

Rhodey turns to leave, and Tony takes his credit card back from the bartender. He stands, about to move in and try kissing Steve again, when he catches movement out of the side of his vision.

“See ya, punk, have a good night!” It’s Bucky, being dragged by them and across the floor by a gorgeous, voluptuous redhead, grinning.

Steve rolls his eyes. “So. I guess telling our friends we’re done for the night is finished,” he says awkwardly.

“Oh, we’re not done for the night,” Tony says, moving in close again, tipping his head up. He can almost feel the heat of Steve’s body close to his, is looking straight up into those amazing blue eyes. “We’re not nearly done.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s voice is a little breathless.

“Yeah.” Tony reaches up the rest of the way and presses his lips to Steve’s.

It’s a little awkward at first as they try to figure out who’ll lean left and who’ll lean right, and Steve’s lips are dry, but they’re smooth, and when Tony gets into the groove, pushes forward a little more so they’re pressed together from hip to chest and deepens the kiss, Steve lets out a tiny sound that could be a whimper. Tony teases at the seam of Steve’s lips with his tongue, and Steve opens beautifully for him, and Tony can’t help but clench his hands into Steve’s magnificent biceps.

“You said something about getting out of here?” Steve asks, pulling away. He’s flushed, his lips are plush and pink, and his blue eyes are dark.

“Let’s go,” Tony grins, grabbing hold of Steve’s hand and dragging him toward the exit. He shoulders a couple of guys out of the way and dives into the open door of a cab, pulling Steve in with him. He rattles off the address and then swings a leg over Steve’s lap and straddles him, all hot, open-mouthed kisses and hands clutching Steve’s neck and carding through his hair.

Steve’s giving as good as he’s getting, big, strong hands gripping Tony’s waist and thigh, hot little noises creaking out of his throats as they make out in the back of the taxi.

“You should be wearing your seatbelt,” Steve says against his mouth, and Tony responds by grinding his hips down a little, feeling Steve harden under him.

“It’s a short trip,” he says, not moving away, before dipping down for another kiss.

Steve’s fingers tighten into his skin, and then he’s being pushed back, to the side, into the actual seat of the car.

Steve’s panting, hands shaking a little as he reaches up for his own shoulder belt.

Tony flops his head back, but reaches up and puts his own on. “Better?”

“Sure is,” Steve says, but he reaches out a hand to clasp Tony’s on the seat between them, his thumb brushing lightly against Tony’s wrist maddeningly.

Steve leans forward a little toward the front. “Sorry about that, sir,” he says, and Tony licks his lips as he watches Steve’s blush race up into his face.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, kid,” the driver says with a wink. “Not everyone decides to stop and put their seatbelt on. I’ve definitely seen worse.”

Steve blushes harder, but Tony just bursts out laughing.

It really is a short ride, and in almost no time they’re pulling up to Tony’s building, and Tony shoves a wad of bills in the driver’s direction, shimmying out behind Steve. He tips big, doesn’t wait for change. He’s almost at the door with Steve in tow when the doorman, Edward, swings it open for them.

“Thanks, Eddie!” Tony says, laughing breathlessly as he and Steve run through the lobby and head for the elevators, and Tony hauls him inside. He keeps pulling until he hits the wall of the elevator car and drags Steve against him, knees to chest, and tugs him down into another scorching kiss. They’re both panting, each breath out is almost a laugh for both of them, but Steve kisses him back enthusiastically, pressing Tony against the wall.

Tony reaches out and blindly hits the button for the penthouse, tugging his fob out to wave in front of the sensor to give him access to the top floors. The elevator rockets up while Steve crowds in closer, trailing hot, wet kisses down Tony’s neck, hitching him up against the wall so Tony has to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist. It’s unbearably hot, and Tony moans, letting his head fall back against the wall while Steve nips and licks at his skin.

He has no sense of time passing while the elevator shoots up, lost in the feeling of Steve’s big, strong hands pressing and kneading at his hips, strong thumbs digging into the dips of his hip bones.

The doors open with a soft chime, and then Steve is all but dropping him back to the floor. He sways, his legs not entirely up to the task of holding him upright, and tries to focus his eyes. Steve’s looking down at him, eyes hungry and dark. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are red and plump from their kisses.

Steve takes his hand and draws him out of the elevator, and Tony has a giddy thought that _he_ should probably be the one leading the way into his own home, but it doesn’t matter – all that matters is that Steve’s looking at him like he wants to pin him down and eat him up, and Tony wants that.

“Which way?” Steve murmurs, nuzzling his face into the crook of Tony’s neck and pulling him close so they’re pressed together again. Tony blinks, not parsing the question. “The hallway,” Steve says patiently into his ear. “Which way down the hallway?”

“Oh, um, the door’s – right behind you,” Tony says, digging his key out of his pocket. Steve lets him pass, then crowds in close behind him, pressing hot, wet kisses to the back of Tony’s neck in a way that makes him shudder. He fumbles with the key, but after a couple of tries he manages to get the door open. As soon as he turns the knob, Steve is rushing him again, pressing against him, and Tony can feel the thick length of his erection press against the small of his back.

He turns, breathless and laughing, in Steve’s arms and walks backwards into the apartment, quickly locking the door behind them.

“Can I get you anything?” he says, pushing at the hem of Steve’s shirt, trying to bare some skin. “Water? Beer? Coffee?”

Steve pushes him against the refrigerator, big hands on Tony’s waist, and dips his head to bring their mouths together again. It’s deep and wet, but unhurried this time. Tony feels thoroughly kissed by the time it’s over, and Steve draws back, breathing hard and eyes twinkling at him.

“Wouldn’t say no to something to drink,” Steve says. “Water’ll do just fine.”

“Sparkling or mineral?”

Steve blinks at him. “Something wrong with the tap?”

Tony rolls his eyes, only pouting a little at the loss as Steve steps back and away from him. He takes a deep breath, trying to regain some composure, then opens the door of the slate steel appliance and pulls out two chilled bottles of pretentious water originating from icebergs in Canada, and passes one to Steve. He takes a dubious glance at it, then cracks the top open and takes a long drink. Tony watches raptly as Steve’s throat bobs with the motion of swallowing, chin tipped back.

Steve pulls the bottle away from his mouth and smirks at Tony, licking a stray droplet off his bottom lip in a way that shouldn’t be sexy but almost has Tony dropping to his knees right there in the kitchen.

He resists the urge, instead moving over to the kitchen island and hopping up onto it, letting his legs dangle against the cupboard doors and takes a drink from his own bottle.

When he tips his head back down, Steve’s right there, standing between Tony’s spread knees, and resting his hands on the black pearl countertop on either side of Tony’s hips.

“Hi,” Tony says, grinning, and takes hold of the neck of Steve’s shirt to pull him the last few inches closer so their lips can meet again. This kiss is slower, no less amorous but not so rushed or hurried. It’s like a slow burn, like red hot coals and glowing embers, rather than the flash fire of desire Tony had been feeling all evening. It’s different, but it’s nice.

“Hi,” Steve says back, pulling away from the kiss. His lips are slick, and his ridiculously blue eyes are staring directly into Tony’s, open and genuine and dark.

“Did you want the grand tour?” Tony asks, suddenly feeling a little out of breath. He’s not nervous, per se. Steve’s not the first gorgeous human he’s brought back to his apartment, after all. But the intensity in the way Steve is meeting his gaze is a little disconcerting.

“I’d love one,” he says, grinning as he steps back and pulls Tony gently off the counter, helping him back down to the floor. Tony walks backward, leading Steve through the apartment.

“This would be the living room,” he says, not taking his eyes from Steve’s as he backs up around the coffee table, their fingers tangled loosely together.

“It’s nice,” Steve says, not looking around at all. His eyes are locked on Tony’s, a playful expression twitching as he tries not to laugh.

“Great view of the river,” Tony tells him. “You can see Beacon Hill from here. It’s very breathtaking. The realtor nearly swooned.”

Neither of them is glancing toward the windows as Tony continues through the room without slowing down, leading the way through to the hall.

“Guest bathroom on the right,” Tony says as they go by it, waving a hand toward the door vaguely. “Big rain shower, two sinks, the whole nine yards.”

“Fancy.”

Tony smirks at Steve’s teasing expression. “Well, you know, I like pretty things.” He gives Steve an overtly suggestive once-over, and Steve actually does laugh this time, though he blushes a little at the same time.

“This is my favourite room of the house,” Tony grins, trying to make his tone sound as though he’s confiding in Steve. “I think you’ll like it, too.”

He pulls Steve through the doorway and into the bedroom, pulling him toward the king-sized bed. It’s on a raised platform, custom made and dressed in fine linens. When they get to the edge, Steve spins him around and sits on the bed first, pulling Tony into his lap. Tony straddles his thighs, knees on the mattress on either side of him, and presses his hips forward as he dips his chin to kiss Steve.

“You’re right, I do like this room,” Steve murmurs when Tony pulls back for air. He chuckles and presses kisses along Steve’s jaw. “The feng shui is really something.”

“You know, if you’re going to insist on being smart-mouthed, I can think of a few more productive things you can do with said smart mouth,” Tony murmurs against Steve’s collarbone, earning a throaty chuckle.

Tony’s lips move back up to Steve’s, and Steve’s hands move up to take hold of Tony’s jaw and head, holding him still so he can plunder and explore Tony’s mouth at his leisure. Tony feels consumed, captivated and like there’s nothing else in the world besides the two of them in this bed.

Tony lets out a small noise, grinding his hips forward so he can feel Steve’s erection hard against his own, and slides his hands down Steve’s broad, hard chest. He pulls at the hem of Steve’s shirt, trying to lift it, trying to get to more skin. Steve’s own hands slide down Tony’s throat, making him shiver, and his fingers knead into Tony’s collarbones.

“Do you like this shirt?” Steve asks, the words muffled against Tony’s skin.

“What?” Tony asks, hazy. Talking means not kissing, and he’s pretty sure he’s not okay with that.

“Your shirt,” Steve repeats. “Your Pony shirt. Do you like it?”

Tony pulls back, blinking. “I am wearing this shirt because I lost a bet. I do not like this shirt. I mean, if _you_ like it, I can –”

“I would like it better if you weren’t wearing it,” Steve says, thick, strong hands wrapping into the neckline of the shirt. Without warning, he jerks his arms apart, muscles bulging and cording as he yanks at the fabric.

Except, nothing happens.

Tony realizes Steve had been trying to rip the shirt in half, and it would have been ridiculously sexy and amazing if it had happened, but it would appear that the tensile strength of the cotton blend pink T-shirt is more than a match for the admittedly impressive muscles of Steve’s arms.

Tony, of course, bursts out laughing. Less because Steve had failed to rip the T-shirt, and more because of the look of consternation on Steve’s face. His eyebrows bunch up adorably, and his kiss-swollen lips turn down into a strangely disappointed grimace.

At the sound of Tony’s laughter, Steve’s eyes snap up to his face, and then he’s breaking out into a grin of his own, face flushing a little as he chuckles.

“That did not go according to plan,” he admits.

“No, no it did not,” Tony agrees, still laughing. “But points for effort, definitely.”

“You know, I’m not even sure why I came home with a guy wearing a pink pony T-shirt,” Steve says archly, mouth twitching unsteadily as he tries to keep a straight face. “What was I thinking?”

Tony grins, leaning back a little. He leans a little farther than necessary, feels his body start to tip past balance, and Steve’s hands quickly move to Tony’s hips to hold him steady – exactly as Tony had hoped and predicted. Tony’s grin turns sly, and he takes hold of the hem of his shirt and peels it off over his head, making sure to arch his back a little, tip his head back so the column of his throat stretches out invitingly.

It works, of course, and Steve’s hands slide up from his hips around to his back, pulling Tony in so Steve can kiss and lick at his chest. Tony reaches for Steve’s shirt again, and this time Steve sits up and lets Tony pull it over his head, and then Tony wraps his arms around Steve’s neck so they’re chest to chest, moaning a little at the feeling of hot, smooth skin rubbing against hot, smooth skin. He flicks his tongue out to lick at the shell of Steve’s ear, hot breath blowing over it, and winds his fingers into Steve’s hair to scratch at his scalp.

“How do you, uh, wanna – _oh_ – how do you like –”

Tony pulls back slightly, grinning, breathless. “Not going to lie, Soldier – when I saw your ass from across the room I didn’t think I wanted anything as much as I wanted to fuck it, but right now? Feeling how hard you are?” He grinds his hips down to emphasize his point, thrilling a little at the hiss it elicits from Steve. “I wanna feel that inside me.”

Steve doesn’t answer, simultaneously rolling them and laying them down so he’s over Tony, legs tangling together. Steve holds himself up on one elbow, then slides his hand down Tony’s chest to the waist of his jeans, using one hand to flick open the button and slide down the zipper. He reaches a hand in, and Tony grins a little because, honestly, he’s not wearing any underwear.

Steve groans when he realizes, and his hand wraps confidently around the length of Tony’s cock to give it a firm stroke.

Tony’s hips jerk up, and he gasps. The pressure, the heat, the rough calluses – it’s more than he could have hoped for. More than he thinks he can handle. He makes another embarrassing noise – this one could probably be described as a whimper, but he’d deny it until his dying day – when the rough pad of Steve’s thumb glides over the head of Tony’s cock, dipping into the slit. Steve’s mouth is on his again, licking into him as he lets go of Tony’s cock and starts trying to push at his jeans, to push them down his thighs. Tony gets with the program and starts to help, kicking at the pants until he finally manages to unhook them from his ankles, leaving him just in his ridiculous teal argyle socks. He wants to sit up, pull them off, but that would mean pulling his mouth away from Steve’s and, frankly, he refuses because that would be stupid.

Instead, he lets his hands trail down Steve’s chest, moving to the button of his jeans. He works Steve’s fly open slowly, teasingly, relishing the impatient noises and shifting Steve can’t hold back.

Once Tony gets his fly open, he pushes Steve’s jeans down, hooking his thumbs into Steve’s underwear so they come down, too, and then instead of going straight for Steve’s dick, Tony grabs a handful of each side of Steve’s ass, letting his fingers dig into the taut muscle.

It’s even better than it had looked in jeans, honestly.

Steve’s pulling away, and Tony’s whine is a bereft, sad noise, but Steve just gets up on his knees long enough to push his jeans down, then shifts around until he can get his pants the rest of the way off, and Tony just stares.

He’s thick with muscles. Steve has muscles Tony’s not sure he’s ever seen before. The dips and dimples between them are dark in the low light of the room, and Tony licks his lips. Even Steve’s feet – Tony can’t help but notice Steve got _his_ socks off – are gorgeous. His toes are long and elegant-looking, and Tony thinks it’s adorably charming that his toenails are slightly uneven, and short and squat for the shape of his toes. _Finally,_ he thinks, _a flaw._

Steve’s leaning in again, holding himself up on his elbow and placing his hand on Tony’s cheek. His thumb brushes Tony’s jaw, and Tony can’t help shivering a little at the gentle touch. Then Steve’s kissing him again, but this time it’s gentler. It’s still deep, still promising a sensual evening, but this time it’s slow, like Steve’s got all the time in the world and he’s going to savour it.

It makes Tony’s toes curl.

Steve starts shifting, just enough to slide their skin together. Tony’s cock finds its way to the dip of Steve’s groin, and Steve’s cock presses against the top of Tony’s thigh, his hip, and he groans low in his throat as Steve starts to move, just a little, giving them both the friction they want.

“Do you have – god, do you have condoms?” Steve asks into his lips, and Tony snorts.

“Top drawer,” Tony says, gesturing toward the nightstand. “Lube’s in there, too.”

“You still good with, um…?”

Tony rears his head back, quirking an eyebrow at Steve. “Am I still good with you fucking me? Yes. I think I can emphatically say that yes, yes I am.”

Steve rolls his eyes, then presses a gentle pecking kiss to the tip of Tony’s nose before he reaches over Tony for the nightstand drawer.

He comes up with the bottle of lube and a couple of condoms, and drops them on the bed beside Tony’s hip. Then he goes back to kissing Tony, shifting them so they’re side by side on the bed, facing each other, and then he pulls Tony’s knee up and hooks it over his own hip.

Tony presses his hips forward so their pelvises are shifting together, gasping a little when Steve trails his fingers down Tony’s spine, curling them into the cleft of his ass and brushing over his hole.

It’s almost a questioning touch, to see how Tony reacts to it, and then Steve’s using that one hand to grab the lube bottle, using the pump top to spread the slick liquid over his fingertips.

His hand moves back to Tony’s ass, sliding up and down his crack and slicking lube over his entrance before the tip of one finger circles him, rubs at him, and then finally breeches him.

His finger is hot and hard and big, but it’s also exactly what Tony’s been waiting for and he just moans into it, concentrating on making his muscles relax into the sensation, not fighting the intrusion. Steve’s kisses grow a little sloppier, less controlled as his finger presses in, a little out, then in again, just getting Tony’s body used to the feeling of having something inside it, working the muscles loose.

Tony shifts his leg so it hitches higher up on Steve’s hip, opening himself a little more to Steve’s hand, and is rewarded with the tip of a second finger working its way in beside the first. He moans, fingers clutching at Steve’s back, shifting a little. It’s an intense burn, now – has it really been that long? – but he just tries to breathe deeply through it. Steve’s fingers slow, but he doesn’t pull away. He kisses Tony, his free hand sliding down to take hold of Tony’s cock. It’s flagged a little, from the distraction, but at Steve’s touch it hardens again.

“That’s it,” Steve murmurs into his lips. “That’s good. Just relax, I’ve got you.”

Tony takes a shuddering breath in, and blows it out forcefully. He takes another breath, and then he feels himself start to relax, feels himself opening more to Steve’s fingers.

When the resistance is gone, Steve starts moving again, fingers moving in and out. He keeps going, well past the point where Tony is slick enough to accept him, into a territory that could more easily be described as ‘teasing him into desperation.’

“Okay, that’s good, we’re good,” Tony babbles, shifting his hips back to try and get more inside him. More fingers, more heat, more stretch. More Steve. “Come on, come on.”

Steve chuckles, and it’s low and sexy and dark, but he carefully pulls his fingers out of Tony’s hole and reaches for one of the condoms beside them. He tears it open with his teeth, and takes the rubber out of the package.

Tony plucks it out of his fingers and licks his lips, meeting Steve’s eyes. Without looking down, he pinches the tip and rolls the condom onto Steve’s cock, making sure to touch him as much as possible while he does so. Steve’s head tips back and he makes a pleased sound at the contact, so Tony wraps his hand around the hard, somewhat impressive length of it, and strokes smoothly up and down a few times. The condom is lubricated, so he doesn’t worry too much about adding more lube to it.

Steve stretches forward and kisses him, soft and slow and distracting, until Tony can’t think about anything else. His hand has stopped moving, his hips have stopped moving. He’s nothing except this kiss.

Then Steve is moving, climbing over Tony to his other side, so his chest and abs and hips are snugged up against Tony’s back and ass and thighs. Steve kisses the back of Tony’s neck as he pushes Tony’s leg up, half-rolls him onto his stomach, and gets up on one elbow so he can use his other hand to guide the head of his cock to Tony’s entrance.

It meets a little bit of tension at the start, but Tony breathes through it and makes himself relax because, god, he wants this, wants it more than air. Steve pushes in gently but steadily, and the head of his cock gets past the ring of muscle. They moan in tandem at the feel, and then Steve is pushing slowly all the way in.

“S’good?” he slurs in Tony’s ear, breath hot and moist and hoarse.

“Fuck, yes, keep – god, keep going,” Tony gasps, pushing his hips back to try and welcome more of Steve’s cock into his body.

It seems to take an eternity for Steve to start moving purposefully – long, smooth strokes that are slowly taking Tony apart. It feels amazing, the stretch and fullness and heat of Steve in him. Steve’s free hand is roaming over his body, tweaking gently at a nipple before stroking down his ribcage and petting along his hip and thigh, then moving back up to touch more of Tony’s skin, his belly and his shoulder and his throat.

Tony’s not entirely sure what he’s feeling right now. No one’s ever been so focused on _him_ during sex. Not that he’s usually ignored, but he’s used to feeling like he and his partner are each working toward their _own_ goal, less like they’re working together toward a _common_ goal. Less like this.

Then Steve is shifting, twisting his body a little and – there. There, right there, Steve’s cock hits his prostate on every stroke, building the tension of Tony’s desire and jolting pleasure low in his groin.

Steve’s hand wraps around his cock and starts stroking. Not hard and fast enough to get Tony off, not yet, just intensifying the sensations coursing through Tony’s body until he’s a shaking, whining mess.

“Are you close?” Steve asks him, his voice hoarse and breathless, and to Tony, the tremor in his voice is the first indication that Steve’s as affected by their fucking as he is, that he’s going just as crazy with it.

Tony is, actually. He’s not sure he had known how close he was until Steve says it, and he gasps in a wheezing breath, hands scrabbling at the bedding as he tries to push back onto Steve’s cock. “Yes, god, yes, I’m close,” he says, panting. Steve’s hand starts to speed up, squeezing a little tighter as he jerks Tony’s cock roughly.

It’s almost too much. Steve’s calloused hand, smooth and rough and strong, stroking and jerking and rubbing, and his hard cock, thick and full and turning Tony inside out. He’s synced his movements so every time he thrusts in, his hand strokes down, and Tony feels the rush of orgasm start in his ears, closing his eyes as his breathing gets harsher.

Then, he’s coming, finally, eyes squeezed shut and his whole body tensing, come spurting between him and the bed, slick on his belly. He cries out, and it seems to go on forever, Steve hitting his prostate again and again, drawing the orgasm out.

“God, god, god,” Steve’s gasping in his ear, and then his hand is gripping Tony’s hip while Tony shakes with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He thrusts harder, grinding his hips in and shoving his cock as deep into Tony as he can reach. Tony’s on the brink of being too sensitive, but it still feels good, still feels like there’s nothing else in the world except Steve and him and sex. He throbs inside Tony, making him keen, as he comes, nonsense words whispered in Tony’s ear.

Even as he starts to come down, Steve thrusts in and out a few more times. Tony’s loose and open and there’s no resistance at all, and he thinks it should be too much, for both of them, but Steve’s just thrusting and licking at his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and tonguing at it.

He stops slowly, still grinding a little as they catch their breath, as his cock softens, until he finally pulls out, pinching the base of the condom. He nuzzles into the back of Tony’s neck, brushing soft kisses there as they both allow their breathing to come back to normal.

“Are – are you staying?” Tony asks, voice rough. “Staying the night?”

“Sure, if you want,” Steve says into his hair.

“Yeah. That’s – that’d be good.”

Steve rolls onto his back, slowly, and brushes a hand through Tony’s hair before he gets up off the bed and moves to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. Tony stays where he is, basking, trying not to think about whether this night was the start of something or if it was just a one-night thing. He’ll think about it tomorrow. Right now, he just wants to be wrapped up in warm, strong arms and go to sleep.

When Steve comes back, he’s got a wet cloth, and he uses it to wipe at the come on Tony’s belly, to wipe up the worst of the lube spread over Tony’s ass. He drops it on the nightstand and then pulls Tony into his arms, curling his body around Tony’s back.

It’s perfect, and Tony falls asleep in no time.

 

+++++

 

Tony wakes up slowly, and he can tell by the light filtering in through the window coverings that it’s early, which is unusual for him. Well, early is sort of relative, anyway. It’s before noon, anyway.

He’s not alone in the bed, and he’s pleasantly sore. He wiggles his toes, and then Steve is snuffling and nuzzling into the back of his neck sleepily, and if Tony’s not mistaken it might be the most adorable thing in the world. He grins and rolls, turning around so he can face Steve, who blinks his eyes open reluctantly.

And then he smiles. It’s bright and happy and the most open expression Tony can remember seeing on anyone’s face. As though he’s truly, completely, unequivocally joyful to see Tony’s face this morning.

“Hey, soldier,” Tony says, voice rough with sleep.

“Hi,” Steve says, still grinning. He reaches out and tangles his fingers with Tony’s so they’re holding hands. Tony wants to roll his eyes, because they’re literally laying in bed holding hands, but honestly, he kinda likes it.

“Did you sleep okay?” Tony asks, brushing his thumb across the back of Steve’s hand.

“I did,” Steve tells him, leaning forward and pressing a closed-mouth peck against Tony’s lips. Tony accepts the kiss and purses his own in reciprocation, then pulls back.

“I probably have an extra toothbrush under the sink if you want,” he tells Steve, rolling onto his back and stretching. “I’m gonna make coffee. You drink coffee?”

Steve grins, running a broad palm down Tony’s body as he stretches. It’s not suggestive, it’s more like he’s just admiring the way Tony’s body moves. “Yes, please,” he says, grinning a little goofily. They hold one another’s gaze for another beat, and then Tony rolls, heading for the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth.

He comes out of the bathroom with the toothbrush in his mouth, pulling on a pair of soft sleep pants and heading straight for the kitchen to start the coffee pot. He fills the reservoir and scoops more than the necessary amount of grounds into the filter, and flicks the on switch. He heads back to the bathroom to spit out his toothpaste, and runs into Steve – jeans pulled up to his hips but not buttoned, face washed and teeth brushed. Tony grins and gooses him on the way by, making Steve splutter out a laugh.

Tony finishes brushing his teeth and washes his own face, running a hand ruefully through his wildly unkempt hair, then heads for the kitchen again. Steve is leaning against the counter, eating a banana from Tony’s fruit bowl.

“Hungry?” Tony asks him, leaning against the counter beside them so they’re hip to hip. He tips his head up to look at Steve through his eyelashes.

“Starving,” Steve admits, flushing a little. “Hope you don’t mind I stole a banana.”

Tony snorts, glancing back at the coffee pot as it keeps brewing.

“We could go get a real breakfast. I don’t have a lot of stuff here, really, but there’s this great diner down the street…”

“You wanna get breakfast with me?” Steve asks, and that’s how Tony knows Steve’s in this, isn’t treating him like a one-night stand. The hopeful note of his voice, the softness around his eyes, the little smile curving one side of his mouth up. Like Steve had been worried Tony didn’t want more than a one-night stand, like he’d hoped for more, himself.

Tony grins. “Yeah, I wanna get breakfast with you,” he says. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Steve’s shoulder, then pulls two mugs from the cupboard and starts pouring coffee. The pot’s not done yet, but he needs coffee more than he needs to let it finish. “How do you take it?” he asks.

“Strong and black,” Steve says. Tony grins and hands him a mug, then takes a hot, slurping sip of his own. Steve drinks it fast, seeming to hold no regard for the temperature of the liquid, but Tony savours his a little, his gaze drifting to Steve’s chest and abs and shoulders.

Steve pours himself another coffee, and gives Tony an appraising up-and-down look of his own. “So,” he says after another few gulps of his coffee. “Diner down the street?”

Tony grins. “Best french toast of your life,” he promises, taking his mug and heading for the bedroom. “I might have a shirt big enough to cover your shoulders. Maybe. If you don’t flex.”

Steve snorts and follows him in, but when Tony stops in front of the closet, Steve crowds up against his back, pressing gentle kisses to his ear, his neck.

Tony tips his head back and sighs. “This could also be a plan,” he allows, hand still on the handle of the closet door. He feels his cock stir a little with interest.

Steve makes an apologetic noise and steps back from him. “I really am hungry,” he says. Tony sighs and opens the closet door, flicking through clothes until he finds a pair of pants he can put on, and he drops his sleep plants to the floor and steps into them. He glances back to see Steve watching him, eyes dark and focused. “But I don’t have any plans after breakfast,” he says, swallowing tightly.

Tony bites his bottom lip, trying to tamp down his smile a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter: [Tony, a suave motherfucker](https://i.imgur.com/5yt8PTr.png) by deruzard.  
> 
> 
> Art for this chapter: [The Thirst Is Real](https://i.imgur.com/Powl9uN.png) by deruzard.  
> 


	2. Falling in love is so hard on the knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: there is a slightly bdsm-esque scene here which probably should have been negotiated better. There’s no talk of a safeword, etc, due to both Tony’s and Steve’s inexperience with that kind of thing. There's some bondage. There’s also some edge play.
> 
> There is also a cameo by the best french toast meal known to man.

Breakfast is, in fact, the best french toast Steve has ever had in his life. He tells Tony as much repeatedly, eyes rolling in pleasure as he talks through a mouthful.

“They make it out of cinnamon buns and put cream cheese icing in the middle. It’s about eight thousand calories but it’s worth all of them,” Tony tells him, swiping a bite of his own french toast through the syrup on his plate. Steve moans again at the taste, and Tony feels his cheeks flush a little because it’s the exact sound Steve makes when he sinks his cock into Tony’s ass.

Well, it was the first time. Tony hopes it’s the sound he makes every time.

They chat over breakfast. Tony’s surprised by how easy it is. Usually, when he’s talking to new people (even new people he’s recently slept with), he feels the need to be a little guarded. He’s Howard Stark’s son, and if he’s completely honest with himself, his guarded demeanor usually has as much to do with his own preference to not be seen exclusively as The Son Of Howard Stark as it is Howard’s insistence that the world is out to use him, and he needs to remember he doesn’t owe the world anything. _Be out for yourself, son. Not anyone else. Stark Industries is all that matters._

That’s what Tony had learned, growing up. Stark Industries, his father’s company, was their legacy. And nothing was as important as that. Let people in and they’d distract you from the work. Let people in, and they’d use you to get to the business.

So don’t let anyone in.

But Steve is so open and honest and refreshing, Tony finds himself laughing and telling him about the time he’d built himself a robot dog when he was seven years old.

“You built it? From scratch?”

“Well, technically,” Tony tells him, “I didn’t have access to all the necessary circuitry so I took one of those toy robot dogs and I replaced some of the programming. So I had this little Pound-Puppy looking dog and I taught it to stealthily steal cookies from Jarvis’ kitchen. Jarvis is our butler.”

Steve is laughing, mouth wide and open and grinning, eyes bright and shining with it. He laughs with his whole body, leaning back and clutching a hand to his chest, and Tony wants to make him laugh over and over and over.

“What did your parents say?”

Tony covers his face with his hand, trying to act embarrassed, playing up the ‘I was an idiot child’ angle. “Jarvis started storing the cookies on higher shelves,” he sighs, and Steve chuckles at him. “Said I’d have to build a bird if I wanted to send robot pets in to steal snacks.”

“What’d your parents do?” Steve grins.

Tony shrugs. “Didn’t have much to say about it, really. Dad said I should be concentrating on more important things, and took it away.”

Steve’s brow furrows, and he’s not laughing anymore. Tony scrambles, trying to bring that grin back, trying to make Steve understand that it was fine. It’s fine. It’s still funny.

“It’s okay, really. He took the robot dog and he marketed the simple AI system I put in it, patented it, and it paid for my first three years of boarding school!” He laughs out the last few words, but Steve is still staring at him, blinking.

“Anyway,” Tony says quickly, changing the subject. “What about you? You don’t seem like the trouble maker type, Rogers.”

Steve stares at him for another moment, then his face softens into a sly grin, as though he’s making a conscious decision to let something go. “Then you’re not paying enough attention,” he says.

“Do tell,” Tony insists.

“I was a bit of a scrapper growing up,” Steve admits, wrinkling his nose adorably. “Before I hit my growth spurt. I was getting in fights every week at school.”

“Who would have thought little Steve Rogers…” Tony says with mock seriousness, shaking his head in affected disappointment.

Steve laughs. “Well, I didn’t like bullies and I had a bit of a smart mouth.”

“ _Had_?” Tony says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, _had_ ,” Steve says. “I’m a model of diplomacy and grace, now.”

He manages to say it with a straight face, but Tony grins at him nonetheless.

Steve pops the last bite of french toast into his mouth, then leans back in the booth with a satisfied sigh, using both hands to wipe his mouth with the white paper napkin. Tony watches him for a long moment.

“So what’re you doing later?” he asks after a beat, corner of his mouth turning up as he takes another sip of his coffee.

Steve grins, but then just as suddenly as the smile had spread across his face, it stiffens and wilts.

“I don’t – look, Tony, this has been great.”

“Oh.” Tony feels small, suddenly. He’d kind of thought they’d had a good thing going. They’d had a good night, had great sex, and they were having a nice morning. He’d felt a connection, he’s sure of it.

“Not – it’s not.” Steve takes a deep breath, and reaches his hand out to grasp hold of Tony’s wrist. It’s warm, and his grip is firm, and he brushes his thumb against the inside of Tony’s wrist, making the soft, thin skin there tingle. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s _not_. I ship out next week, Tony.”

“Wow. That’s… that’s fast.”

“I know. That’s why – I shouldn’t have – but I liked you. I _like_ you. But next Saturday I head to New York and then I’m overseas for eight months.”

Tony stares down at his breakfast, not feeling particularly hungry anymore. Steve gives his wrist a tender squeeze.

“I just… I don’t want to do that, to you. I don’t… I don’t want you to get invested and then I’m gone.”

“Don’t you think it’s up to me how invested I get?”

“I mean –”

“And besides,” Tony says haughtily, feeling the need to lash out a little and maybe put Steve, here, in his place, “what makes you think I’m the one who’s going to get invested, Rogers? I mean, the sex was good, and breakfast has been fun, but we’re not _soulmates_. We just met. I just thought we could hang out, maybe get a drink, fool around a little.”

Steve blinks, and swallows. “I guess…”

“I’m not saying let’s date, Steve. You’re going to be gone for eight months, that’s a long time. I’m just saying, let’s see how the week goes. Let’s have fun. It doesn’t have to be a _thing_.”

“So you’re saying you want to, what, do a no-strings-attached thing?”

“Why not?”

Steve tilts his head, but doesn’t answer until Tony finally looks up at him and meets his eyes. “Not usually something I’m into. I don’t like to play those games.”

“I’m not saying we make a game of it, Steve. We’re clearly having a nice time, we get along, and the sex is fantastic –”

“I thought you said ‘good.’”

“– I was downplaying it, you know it was fucking fantastic –”

“You’re the one who said ‘good,’ I would have described it as ‘adequate.’”

“– you goddamned little shit, the sex is _fantastic_ and you know it, and what I’m saying is, let’s keep _having_ fantastic sex, and at the end of the week we call it quits.”

Steve’s mouth is twisted against a smirk, but his eyes are locked on Tony’s, intense and serious. “So one week, then it’s over.”

“Sure. We’re young. It’s a week of good sex. Give you something to jerk off to in the barracks.” An older lady in the booth next to them clears her throat loudly, and Steve ducks his head, blushing. Tony, in a show of his seasoned years and maturity, sticks his tongue out at her.

“Okay,” Steve says after a bit. “We can try it. But if we start getting invested…”

“You’re not irresistible, Steve Rogers.” Tony says it without heat, and Steve narrows his eyes into a glare. “It’ll be fine. It takes way longer than a week to get really attached to someone,” Tony continues, winking. “I’m just doing my part to support our troops.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he settles against the back of the booth again and grins at Tony.

 

+++++

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon just walking around the city. They chat and go to the touristy places and they stop for gelato. Tony gets a spoon with his, but Steve eats his with obliviously broad swipes of his tongue that, honestly, are driving Tony a little crazy.

Steve talks about his father dying in the Gulf War before Steve was properly old enough to really know him. Tony talks about his dad’s high expectations, about Stark Industries. Steve is impressed, but he doesn’t get that ‘gonna take advantage of the rich kid’ gleam in his eye, and the subject changes organically. It’s nice. Good. Casual. The afternoon flies by, but eventually Tony thinks it might be time to find dinner. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, his other hand twined with Steve’s as they walk down the sidewalk, to check the time and maybe call Sorellina and see if they can get him in without a reservation.

Well, he knows they will as soon as he gives them his name, but that’s not the point. The point is mostly for Steve to watch it happen.

He glances up at Steve with a grin and then down to his phone as he powers up the screen, and then his face falls and his eyebrows crinkle. He has about 14 text messages from Rhodey, and half a dozen missed calls.

He’s about to mention to Steve how odd it is that Rhodey has been trying to get ahold of him so diligently, which is unusual, and that he hadn’t felt his phone vibrate in his pocket at all, when the screen lights up with a phone call – it’s, of course, Rhodey. Tony realizes he must have turned the ringer off _and_ the vibrate function.

“Hey, sugar plum,” Tony says, sliding his finger across the ‘answer’ button and bringing the phone up to his ear. “What’s shakin’?”

“Oh my god. Tones! Thank god. Are you okay?”

Tony blinks. “Yes? Should I not be?”

“You’re fine? He didn’t – are you – where are you?”

Tony glances at the street sign above them. “Wandering around on Beacon. Why, what’s up?”

Rhodey huffs out a heavy, harsh breath, but he doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“Rhodes?” Tony asks, starting to worry. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh my god, Tony, no. Everything is _not_ okay. You went home with some random guy who’s easily twice your size last night, and you’ve spent the entire day not answering my texts or phone calls. I thought – fuck – I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere! Or, or, I don’t know, maybe some guy somewhere is walking around wearing your _skin_ , how the fuck would I know?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you talking about? I’m fine! I can take care of myself!”

“You can _not_ take care of yourself, Tony, You left the bar with a strange guy wearing a My Little Pony T-shirt –”

“Which was _your_ idea!”

“– and then I haven’t heard from you all day! In what universe was I not supposed to think you’d been killed and chopped up into little pieces by a serial killer?”

“Um, because Steve’s not a crazy person? But I’m starting to think you might be.”

“God, you just – you’re okay.” It’s part question, part statement. Tony rolls his eyes fondly.

“I’m fine. Steve’s right here, you wanna ask him?”

“You’re still _with_ him?” Tony pulls the phone away from his ear a little to try and protect his eardrum, and glances at Steve, who’s biting his lip to hold back a grin and pretending to ignore the conversation beside him. “Wait, no, no, no. I want to – I don’t think you’ve ever spent more than 12 hours in _my_ company, let alone some guy you just met. What kind of refractory period does that guy – nope, no, I take it back, I do not want an answer to that question, I’m hanging up the phone.”

“You know, maybe I’d be able to spend more than 12 hours with you if you were less of a pain in the ass, Rhodes.”

“Yep, definitely hanging up, don’t forget condoms.”

“Hate you,” Tony sing-songs fondly, grinning as he pulls the phone away from his cheek and hits the ‘disconnect’ button.

“Everything alright?” Steve asks, his thumb rubbing across Tony’s wrist.

“Oh, sure, just Rhodey being a mother hen. It’s what he does best.”

“That’s your friend from last night?”

“That’s the one.”

“It’s good that he’s checking on you, you know. I mean, if I _were_ a serial killer looking to make you my next victim he would have been way too late, but still.”

Tony snickers and bumps his shoulder against Steve’s bicep – damn, he’s tall – and wiggles his phone at Steve enticingly. “So, what do you think? Italian? I can probably get us into Sorellina.”

Steve grins ruefully. “Honestly, Tony, don’t you have, I don’t know, more important things to do? Studying? Homework? You don’t have to spend the rest of the night taking me around Boston.”

“First, I resent the implication that I have to do any studying at all, because it calls into question my manhood and undeniable genius.” Tony ignores Steve’s eye roll and barrels on. “Second, I’ll have you know that I’ve never been to most of these parts of Boston. I mean, I have, but I’ve never done the Freedom Trail. Or – oh, we could do the swan boats at Boston Common!”

“Tony, it’s 50 degrees out here. Why on earth would you want to get in a swan boat?”

“Because it’s fun! Because I’ve never taken a selfie on a swan boat! Because you only live once and I’m only going to know you for a week, and I want to be able to put in my autobiography that I went on the swan boats with Steve Rogers.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment. “You know what, fine. Let’s do the swan boats. But we’re not going to Sortini’s –”

“Sorellina.”

“– because I’m still wearing yesterday’s jeans. I’m buying dinner tonight.”

Tony raises an eyebrow as Steve jerks a chin toward a street vendor, and the smell fresh tacos fills his nostrils.

“This place has the best fish tacos this side of North Carolina.”

“Is North Carolina known for its fish tacos?” Tony says, raising an eyebrow dubiously.

“Not as well known as this place,” Steve grins as he steps into the line.

“What do you even know about well-known fish tacos in Boston, isn’t this your first time here?”

“I checked Tweeter.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The… Tweeter? On the internet?”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“No, I _do_ know how to use Tweeter.”

“Oh my god, you’re precious.” Tony knows his eyes have to be sparkling with mirth, but so far he’s managing to keep a mostly-straight face.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“It’s ‘Twitter.’” Tony says, and leaves it at that, one eyebrow quirked up teasingly.

“It’s… yes, Twitter. Whatever.”

“Do you – have you even heard of this place before?”

Steve grins, a little guilty. “No. But it smelled good, and it was close by.”

“So we could be eating mercury-rich fish tacos?” Tony says, glancing at the chalkboard on the side of the food truck, with its ‘catch of the day’ menu written out in blue chalk. ‘Chipotle Avo-COD-o Fish Taco’ stares back at him aggressively. “You know this could kill us, right?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “The line’s long, that only ever happens at good food trucks.”

Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “Or new ones that haven’t poisoned anyone _yet_ ,” he argues.

Steve grins. “I promise that if you get food poisoning, I’ll take care of you for the rest of the week.”

Tony eyes him for a moment. “With breakfast in bed?”

“Yes,” Steve says, “if you can manage to eat.”

“With breakfast blowjobs in bed?”

Steve’s face flushes a little and he gives Tony a mock glare. “Only if you stop talking about –” he lowers his voice to a near-whisper “–blowjobs in public.”

Tony barks out a laugh. “I didn’t know you blushed, Rogers. That’s exciting.”

Steve runs a hand down his face, covering his eyes for a moment. “I’m going to regret not making fun of your shirt last night, aren’t I?”

“For the rest of your days,” Tony says with a smug grin.

 

+++++

 

They eat their fish tacos – and Tony will admit, around a mouthful of his second taco, that they probably _are_ the best fish tacos this side of North Carolina – on a park bench in Boston Common, watching the attendant stand beside the swan boat area. He looks like an overly-bored teenager, long lanky hair and a heavy fleece jacket over his arms.

“You really wanna do the swan boats?” Steve asks, forehead wrinkling in disbelief.

“I’m going to be able to tell my grandkids I rode a swan boat with Steve Rogers,” Tony says with a mock swoon, licking a little chipotle sauce off his thumb. Steve watches him, then reaches out to take hold of Tony’s wrist and sucks Tony’s index finger into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around the tip to lick off a smear of chipotle sauce.

Tony’s mouth drops open and his dick hardens instantly.

“Sure I can’t convince you otherwise?” Steve asks, his voice a little husky.

Tony blinks for a moment. He could ride the swan boats – which, if he’s honest, he’d had no idea would require pedalling and, therefore, physical activity – in 50-degree weather, or he could take his new soldier boy-toy home for another night of debauchery.

Maybe he’d get a crack at that amazing ass this time.

“Fuck swan boats,” Tony says, hauling Steve to his feet hurriedly and dragging him up the path to the exit of the park. Steve laughs as he stumbles after him, but Tony doesn’t slow down.

 _Now_ he’s got plans.

 

+++++

 

When they get back to Tony’s, he pushes Steve straight back to the bedroom, ignoring his breathless laughter. Steve lets Tony push him down onto the bed and start yanking at his clothes, until Steve is naked and spread out over the unmade covers. Tony grins and strips himself down, too, quickly and efficiently. He crawls, naked, over Steve’s body, and dips his head down for a kiss. Steve reaches up to meet him, and they kiss languidly for a few minutes, until Steve’s hips start pressing up, thrusting up into Tony’s, brushing their cocks together.

Tony moans and breaks the kiss, panting as he mouths his way down Steve’s jaw, his neck, his chest, and dips his tongue into Steve’s navel. His perfectly contoured abs tremble a little, and he hitches in a breath as Tony’s mouth dips lower, tongue tracing a hipbone before he finally moves to Steve’s cock, sucking the tip gently into his mouth.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve sighs, sifting his fingers through Tony’s hair. He doesn’t pull, just rests his hands there as though to let Tony know he’s aware of him.

If his mouth weren’t full, he’d grin. Steve may not know this yet, but Tony gives a hell of a blowjob. Thanks to a combination of youthful exuberance and stubborn determination, he’s mostly managed to obliterate his gag reflex.

He starts off slow – he’s not shy, but he needs to get warmed up first. He bobs his head up and down, wet mouth sliding a little further each time, sucking a little harder on the upstroke, swiping his tongue across the slit before he pushes back down, jaw loose and open.

“Jesus you’re pretty,” Steve murmurs, one of his hands reaching down to slide a thumb along Tony’s jaw.

Tony shivers a little at the compliment, and decides he’s probably almost warm enough. He shifts his knees, changing the angle of his throat so he can push down a little farther. He feels Steve hit the back of his throat once, twice, and then he takes a deep breath and loosens himself as much as he can, sliding all the way down until his chin is rubbing against Steve’s heavy balls, his nose buried in dark blond pubic hair.

“Oh fuck,” Steve gasps, and his hips jerk – it’s obviously involuntary, but Tony was almost expecting it so he manages to ride the motion, pulling up and then back down, all the way. His throat tightens, he can’t help but let out a choked off moan, and he’s bobbing faster, now, taking Steve into his throat with every thrust down.

“God, Tony, christ, that’s so – fuck, that’s – oh god,” Steve gasps, rambling and barely coherent. Tony pushes his thigh up a little, still working his cock with his mouth, so he can press his thumb against the sensitive skin behind Steve’s balls. Steve makes a strangled noise and spreads his legs, and Tony takes the invitation for what it is. He swipes his thumb through some of the drool that’s pooled down the crease of Steve’s thigh, and strokes it across Steve’s hole, the tiny pucker tightening a little at the contact before it relaxes a little, and Tony presses the tip of his thumb in. Steve moans again, and the sound goes right to Tony’s cock. Steve’s erection throbs a little in Tony’s throat, and he tastes the musky, bitter flavour of pre-come on his tongue.

Tony presses his thumb in a little deeper, slick with saliva, and pulls back to suck and lick at the sensitive head of Steve’s cock.

He pulls all the way back, and pulls his thumb out to get more saliva on it, and tries to catch his breath while he presses his thumb into Steve’s ass again, wrapping his other hand around his slick hard on and stroking it.

“Tell me what you like,” Tony says, his voice thick and raspy. “Tell me what gets you off.”

“Oh, god, you’re going to kill me,” Steve gasps, his tone mildly hysterical. “Fuck, Tony.”

“I wanna make you come,” Tony tells him, pressing a kiss to Steve’s belly. “Tell me what you want.”

“I – God, I –”

Tony engulfs Steve’s cock again without waiting for the answer, and Steve, if he’d intended to reply, is unable to. He makes a sound with a lot of consonants but no vowels, and Tony takes him to the root, letting his throat spasm and clench around the head of Steve’s dick.

“Fuck, Tony, I’m gonna –”

Tony stays where he is, thumb pushing in deeper, his other hand cradling Steve’s balls, and pulls back enough so that when Steve comes, he spurts over Tony’s tongue. Tony sucks and sucks, until Steve is shivering and panting and damp with sweat, and only then does Tony pull off, swallowing roughly and rolling his forehead against Steve’s thigh.

“Holy shit,” Steve breathes, flushed and hoarse.

“I wanna fuck you,” Tony says, nipping at the inside of Steve’s thigh.

Steve gasps and jerks, fingers tightening in Tony’s hair. “Give me – christ, give me five minutes,” he pants.

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, okay,” he grins, resting his chin on top of Steve’s thigh and looking up at him. Steve is grinning back down at him. “You can have five minutes.

“You could come up here and kiss me while you wait,” Steve suggests, tugging gently at Tony’s shoulder. Tony gently pulls his thumb from Steve’s ass, making him hiss, then crawls up the bed and lies on his side, perched on his elbow, so he can lean down and kiss Steve. He moans a little when Steve’s tongue dips into his mouth, knowing he can likely taste his own come there.

Steve hauls him over so Tony’s straddling his thighs, then wraps his arms around Tony’s back to hold him down, chest to chest, and keeps kissing him. He shifts his hips a little, and it gives Tony just enough friction to make him whimper, but not enough to get anywhere – which is sort of perfect because he really does want to fuck Steve tonight.

They kiss lazily for a long time, with Steve’s hands roaming over Tony’s back and ass and up to his chest and nipples. Tony responds with gentle nips to Steve’s lower lip, responds by grinding his hips down against Steve’s. Slowly, Steve’s cock starts to recover, starts to thicken and lengthen and stiffen.

“You still want…?” Steve trails off, eyes ticking down to stare at Tony’s lips. Tony’s sure they must look as kiss-swollen and slick as Steve’s do, so he purposely pouts out his bottom lip and smirks.

“Yeah, I want,” he says, trailing a path of kisses back down Steve’s body. This time, he reaches toward the nightstand, where the bottle of lube is still set from the previous night. He squirts a couple of pumps onto his fingers, then grins at Steve and sits back on his haunches. “How do you want it?”

Steve glances at Tony’s hand, hunger in his eyes, then turns over, rests on his elbows and knees, and spreads his legs a little with a smirk. “This work for you?”

Tony stares at Steve, at his perfect body and his gorgeous thighs and his pert, muscled ass. He moans a little and leans forward, better to see the perfect little pucker of Steve’s hole, wrinkled and waiting for him.

Tony brushes his fingers across the skin, spreading the lube around a little, before pumping another dollop onto his fingers and breaching the rim with his middle finger. He slides up to the second knuckle all at once, and Steve hisses a little, tensing. “Too much?” Tony asks, petting a soothing hand down Steve’s hip. “I can slow down.”

“No, no, it’s good, just – still sensitive. It’s good. Don’t stop.”

Tony chuckles low in his throat. “I wasn’t going to stop, I was going to slow down.”

“Well, don’t do that, either.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Tony purrs cheekily, and Steve moans in response, pushing his hips back a little and letting Tony slide his finger in all the way to the base. He can feel the backs of his other fingers brushing against the silky skin of Steve’s taint, the knuckles ghosting across the back of Steve’s balls. Steve moans and tilts his ass up a little, and now Tony can see his cock, hard and full and heavy between his legs.

“Can you – just –” Steve breaks off with a moan, but Tony’s pretty sure he gets the gist of it. He pulls his finger out and adds more lube, pressing two in this time, and Steve gasps and pushes back. Tony slides his fingers in and out, in and out, and then he shifts his angle a little until he finds Steve’s prostate and rubs at it  – carefully, because he knows Steve must be sensitive – with the pads of his fingertips.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Steve swears, shivering and throwing his head back. Tony watches intently as the muscles in Steve’s back shift and twitch. Steve moves back against his fingers, hot and tight and slick inside, and Tony decides he’s about done with the teasing.

He gives Steve a few more thrusts with his fingers and then he reaches for a condom and slips it on before spreading lube over his cock.

He crowds in close to Steve’s ass, using his thumbs to spread his cheeks. Steve turns and looks over his shoulder, blue eyes smoldering, cheeks flushed and lips swollen and shiny.

“Ready?” Tony asks him, his thumb brushing over Steve’s opening gently.

Steve gives him a soft smile, quirking an eyebrow. “I’ve been ready all day,” he says, shifting his legs apart a little more.

Tony leans down and presses a smacking kiss to Steve’s back, then lines his cock up and starts pushing, feeling the way Steve’s rim slowly opens around the head of his cock, hissing through his teeth as he keeps pushing, pushing, until he gets past the resistance. He’s in, and sliding in and in and Steve is shivering, breathing hard. “You good?” Tony asks, stopping about halfway in. “You okay? Steve?”

“Christ, yes, keep – fuck, you feel good,” Steve says, pushing his hips back and enveloping more of Tony’s cock. Tony moans back and finishes the thrust until his hip bones are pressed against Steve’s ass. “That’s it,” Steve says.

Tony holds himself there for a moment. Not just to let Steve get used to the intrusion, but to get used to it himself, because Steve is like a tight, silky furnace, hot and strong and so, so good. Tony pets his hands down Steve’s back, his ribs, his hips.

And then, before Tony can start thrusting, Steve starts doing it for him. He shifts his hips back and forward, rocking on his knees as he sets a rhythm, fucking himself on Tony’s cock. It might actually be the hottest thing Tony’s ever had happen to him in his life. Steve is making little groans of pleasure and effort, his muscles flexing and rolling as he moves.

Tony can only watch him for a moment, heart pounding and head swimming with the amazing sensation of Steve shoving himself back onto Tony’s dick, but then he comes close enough to his senses to get with the program and take hold of Steve’s hips, digging his thumbs into the dips at the small of Steve’s back. He matches the rhythm of Steve’s thrusts, and pushes forward when Steve moves back, and feels like his eyes might roll back in his head at the feeling of that tight, hot channel all the way to the root of his dick.

Steve cries out when they meet, and Tony knows he must be hitting him deep, must be hitting his prostate, because Steve’s breathing speeds up and he thrusts back harder, faster, fingers clenching in the bedding as he hans his head down between his arms and gasps for air.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Steve chants, arching his back.

“God, you’re hot,” Tony murmurs, sliding his hands up to grip Steve’s shoulders. He starts to rotate his hips with every thrust, and Steve’s arms shake, his thighs tremble, and then he slowly sinks down onto his belly, not pulling away so fast that Tony loses his rhythm, but enough so that Tony follows him down, until Steve is lying on his front and can spread his legs wider, giving Tony more room to work and a better angle to hit Steve’s prostate.

He stretches his arms forward and links his fingers with Steve’s, his palms pressed against the backs of Steve’s hands. Steve rocks his hips in time, obviously grinding his cock into the bedding, and Tony’s glad the fabric of his duvet is soft and smooth, not rough-textured, because honestly Steve’s ass feels amazing and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to last much longer.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Tony says, breath hot against the back of Steve’s neck. “Can I – can I see you come?”

Steve chuckles darkly, his voice a little hoarse. “Again?”

“Yeah.” Tony pulls back, pulls out, and gets up on his knees with a grin. He’s panting a little from the exertion, and runs his hands along the backs of Steve’s thighs. “Turn over?”

Steve does, windmilling his legs until he’s on his back. Tony grins and moves up, tucking his bent legs under Steve’s thighs and pushing himself back inside. Steve moans, and Tony watches the column of his throat bob as he swallows roughly.

On his knees like this, Tony doesn’t have to use his arms to hold himself up, so he grips Steve’s thigh with one hand and licks the other before bringing it to Steve’s cock, hard and leaking precome from the tip. He wraps his fingers around the width of it and starts jerking in time with his thrusts, his hand moving to the base as he thrusts in, stroking up to the tip when he thrusts out.

Steve moans and tightens his thighs around Tony’s waist, and then drops his own hand to cover Tony’s adding more pressure and speeding up the motion.

“Like that?” Tony says, not even sure if he’s asking “do you want it like that” or “do you like that” because it doesn’t matter, he can see Steve’s belly trembling, feel his cock throbbing and pulsing in Tony’s hand, and then Steve is letting out a strangled shout, mouth falling open as he comes, though there isn’t much spunk to dribble over Tony’s hand after an orgasm only an hour ago.

His whole body clenches, and the added tightness of his ass feels like a vice grip around Tony’s cock. Tony thrusts a few more times before his balls get hot and tight and then he’s coming, too, his body bowing over Steve’s.

He leans forward, resting himself over Steve and pressing wet, slow kisses to Steve’s mouth before he pulls out and moves to deal with the condom.

When he turns back, Steve is smiling dopily at him, moving lethargically. He stretches, curling his toes. Tony grins down at him, crawling into bed and using a wipe to clean the come off Steve’s belly.

“Hey,” Tony says, lying on his side and propping his head up by his elbow and staring down at Steve. Usually Tony’s a little wired after sex – for a few minutes, at least.

“Hey,” Steve says back, smiling softly. His whole face looks soft, languid, warm.

“I’m gonna go get some water. Want anything?”

Steve shakes his head, still smiling. “Nah. M’good. Might fall asleep though. If you –” he interrupts himself with a yawn “– if you want your bed to yourself tonight, you should kick me out soon. You probably have class in the morning.”

Tony rolls his eyes with a snort. “I have carefully cultivated a schedule that keeps me from having to be in class before noon,” he says. “Besides, what kind of monster would I be to kick you out of my bed after _that_?”

Steve snorts. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says. “I sprawl a little in my sleep.”

Tony waggles his eyebrows and then surges forward to give Steve a quick kiss before he hops out of bed to head to the kitchen for a bottle of water. “Don’t worry, sunshine, I tend to octopus-cuddle, you’re going to have a hell of a time shaking me off and hogging the bed.”

Steve stretches, and Tony stops to appreciate the view before he leaves the room.

He’s slugging back the water when he gets back, and he can see in Steve’s sleepy eyes that he instantly regrets not having accepted a drink – so Tony pulls the extra bottle he’d grabbed from behind his back and holds it out.

Steve grins and pops it open to take a long drink, then sets it on the table beside him and stretches out on his side, patting the bed in front of him.

“Come on, then,” he says to Tony. “I believe I was promised octopus cuddles.”

Tony laughs and slides in next to him. “Wouldn’t want to overpromise and underdeliver,” he says, snuggling into Steve’s warm chest.

Steve brushes a light kiss across Tony’s forehead, and Tony slowly drifts off to sleep.

 

+++++

 

He wakes up alone. He has a moment to feel cold and lonely, but then he hears rattling in the kitchen, and smells the sweet ambrosia of coffee. A moment later, Steve’s coming through the door, wearing a pair of boxers he must have found in Tony’s drawer, holding two cups of coffee in his hands.

“You are the epitome of a good human,” Tony says, voice rough with sleep but still reverent at the fact that Steve had brought him coffee. _In bed._

Steve grins and places both mugs on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning down to press a kiss to Tony’s mouth, ignoring his morning breath.

“Mm, yes, this is a good morning,” Tony purrs, a hand tangling in Steve’s hair to pull him down further.

Steve laughs and pulls up, rolling his eyes at Tony’s hurt look. “I’m making pancakes,” he says. “ I don’t want them to burn, but I wanted to see if you were up and make sure you had coffee.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You brought me coffee _and_ you’re making me pancakes?”

Steve shrugs, his cheeks flushing slightly pink. “I’m hungry.”

“Are you sure you have to go overseas?” Tony says, sitting up against the headboard and reaching for his coffee. He takes a sip and sighs happily. “I have lots of money, you could stay here and be my kept man. Let me fuck you once in a while, make me breakfast…”

“Ha ha,” Steve says sarcastically. “Seriously, the pancakes will be ready soon, you should come out and eat.”

Tony gives him his very best puppy dog eyes over the rim of his coffee mug. “But I’m soooooo comfy and warm here,” he says. Steve scoffs and leaves the room, so Tony watches his ass as he goes.

He wriggles a little back under the covers and takes another sip of his coffee. It’s black, which is how he takes his coffee. He wonders if Steve had remembered that from the day before, or if it’s just the easiest way to bring someone a coffee. He decides not to worry about it and smiles a little when he drinks another mouthful.

He’s about to get up, placing his coffee on the nightstand beside Steve’s abandoned mug, when Steve comes through the door again with two plates on a tray Tony hadn’t even been aware he owned. Tony’s eyes light up and he smiles, wide and excited, because he’s getting pancakes in bed.

“I didn’t even know I had pancake ingredients,” Tony says, scootching up and taking the offered tray from Steve’s hands. “Hell, I don’t even know what pancake ingredients _are_.”

Steve slides into the bed next to him and reaches across for his coffee, avoiding bumping the tray while pressing a kiss to Tony’s jaw. “They’re pretty simple. Eggs, flour, milk, baking powder and cinnamon.”

“I have _baking powder_?” Tony says, skepticism creeping into his voice. “Are you sure?”

“A fresh, unopened jar, yeah.”

“Huh,” Tony says with a shrug before using the side of his fork to cut a square of syrupy pancake off one of the plates. He holds the bite out for Steve, who takes it in his mouth, lips wrapping around the tines of the fork seductively as he slides the pancake off and starts to chew. Tony grins and takes a bite for himself, popping it into his mouth with a flourish.

“Mmm,” he sighs, licking his lips. Steve grins and leans forward for another bite, which Tony obligingly feeds him. They go on like that, not saying much while Tony feeds them both bites of pancake until the plates and their coffee mugs are empty.

“Thank you for breakfast,” Tony says, snuggling back under the covers. “And in bed, no less.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, pecking Tony on the lips.

Tony glances at the clock and groans. “Why is it so early?”

Steve gives him an apologetic one-shouldered shrug. “Sorry. But I –”

“Ah,” Tony says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. They’ve been together for almost 36 hours, it makes sense that Steve would want to get back to his real life.”

“I have to go down to MCAD today. A campus tour I set up last week.”

“Oh, that’s right your grand post-deployment plans of art school.”

Steve nods. “Yeah, so I really do have to go.”

Tony stretches and swings his legs out of bed, not making any move to cover his bare skin at all as he pads toward the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a piss. He leans his head out the door and speaks around his toothbrush. “That’s fine. I have classes this afternoon anyway.”

“Doing anything for dinner?” Steve asks, and Tony feels a flush of pleasure in his chest. Steve wants to have dinner with him.

“No plans,” Tony says.

“Buck and I were gonna meet some friends of ours,” Steve tells him. “Wanna come? You could bring Rhodey.”

Tony ignores the tiny frisson of disappointment that it’s a group thing and not a date, but he knows he’s being stupid – they’d said from the start that this was about having fun and getting off together, not about dating. He’s not supposed to be getting attached. Hell, usually that’s not a problem for him – he decides it must be the euphoria of not having to get out of his bed until _after_ coffee and breakfast.

That Steve had made for him. That literally no one else Tony has ever had in his life has ever made for him. He’s bought a lot of lovers breakfast, but none had ever made him any.

But that doesn’t matter because he’s _not_ getting invested.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll text him.”

Steve saunters into the bathroom and wraps his arms around Tony’s middle, tucking his face into Tony’s hair for a long moment. Tony finishes brushing his teeth hastily, then whirls in Steve’s embrace and kisses him. It gets dirty in almost no time, and then Steve is taking hold of Tony’s hips and lifting him up, sitting him down on the bathroom counter and moving between Tony’s legs. Tony groans and wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, deepening the kiss even further and pressing his erection against Steve’s.

“What – mm – what time do you need to leave?” Tony asks against Steve’s lips, fingers kneading into the tight muscles of Steve’s neck.

“I’ve got at least an hour,” Steve tells him, nipping at Tony’s jaw.

“Whatever shall we do to pass the time?” Tony says, pulling back and affecting his most innocent look.

Steve grins, sharklike. “I’ve got some ideas,” he says before slipping a forearm under Tony’s ass and lifting him up, carrying him back to the bedroom while Tony laughs and yelps.

 

+++++

 

Tony walks into the restaurant Steve had texted him about, strolling in confidently with Rhodey at his heels. It’s a nice place – not too fancy, but not a dive, either. His eyes dart around, taking in the comfortable booths, the chalkboard menu on the wall, and the mahogany bar. He catches sight of Steve first, laughing at something his friend has said, throwing his head back with it. Tony’s heart skips a beat because it’s so lovely to look at.

He makes a beeline for the booth. Steve and Bucky are there, but so is the redheaded woman Tony recognizes, possibly, from Saturday night at the show.

“Tony!” Steve’s eyes light up and he stands up to greet them, a big grin across his face as he reaches out to offer his hand to Rhodey to shake. Rhodey takes it and gives it a firm grip, and Tony wonders if there might be a little bit of a ‘if you hurt my friend I’ll grind you into bone meal and feed you to some random pigs’ protectiveness in his smile, but he can’t be completely certain because he tends not to date anyone long enough to introduce them to Rhodey.

Not that he and Steve are dating. They’re just friends with benefits. Lots and lots of benefits.

“Tony, you remember Bucky,” Steve says, gesturing to the booth and putting his arm around Tony’s shoulders, completely oblivious to Rhodey’s possible eye-daggers.

“Hey,” Bucky says, laconic and smug-looking. The woman’s green eyes bore into Tony’s as her pouty lips smirk at him.

“That’s Natasha, a friend of Buck’s,” Steve continues, oblivious to the way she’s eyeing Tony like he could be a meal, like she can tear him apart and see inside his head.

Tony offers his hand gallantly, and she quirks an eyebrow and hesitates just long enough to show him who’s got the power here before she offers her hand to him. He grins and raises it to his lips, pressing a dry kiss to the smooth skin on the back of her hand, and the corner of her mouth twitches with what he hopes is amusement.

“So this is Tony and Rhodey,” Steve says to the table, as he sits back down in the booth and drags Tony with him, putting an arm around Tony’s shoulders comfortably.

Tony’s a little surprised, but he doesn’t mind the touch at all. Steve deftly turns two pint glasses from the centre of the table right side up and pours from a pitcher of beer, sliding one to Tony first, then Rhodey.

“So how was class?” Steve asks him, his fingers carding into the hair at the back of Tony’s neck. Tony’s not even sure Steve knows he’s doing it, but it’s making Tony’s toes curl.

“Rudimentary,” Tony sighs melodramatically, leaning into Steve’s touch. Rhodey snorts, but Tony ignores him.

“You know, not everyone got their first two masters degrees at 17,” Rhodey tells him, rolling his eyes a little and taking a sip from his pint glass. He raises it a little to salute the others at the table.

“So you _are_ that Tony Stark,” Natasha says. If Tony’s completely honest, he has to admit that most people say that kind of thing with a sense of reverence, but Natasha’s expression and tone could match the level of excitement in confirming that there are, in fact, clouds in the sky.

“The one and only,” Tony answers, raising his own glass jauntily. He gives her a wink, turning on the charm. She doesn’t seem particularly affected.

“We ordered a few platters of chicken wings before you got here,” Steve says, giving Tony that million-watt smile of his. “Did you want something else?”

“Wings are good,” Tony tells him, trying not to look terribly besotted.

“So, Natasha, are you a student?” Rhodey asks, turning to her.

“No,” she tells him with a little shrug. She doesn’t offer up an alternative, though. She’s not rude about it, though, so Rhodey just nods and takes another sip of his beer, turning to Bucky. “And you’re in the army with Steve?”

“ _De oppresso liber_.” Bucky tips his glass at Rhodey with a dip of his chin.

“Aim high,” Rhodey returns with a grin.

“You on leave for school, then?” Bucky says.

“Getting my degree in aerospace engineering, part of the gig.”

“Well, they gotta give folks a reason to wanna be in the air force, I suppose, ‘cause otherwise no one would want to join up,” Bucky smirks. “I’m mostly impressed you can tie your own shoes, let alone pass classes at MIT.”

Tony decides right off the bat that he likes Bucky.

“Well, considering Army stands for ‘Ain’t Ready to be a Man Yet’, I’ll let that one slide.” Rhodey grins back, and Bucky’s mouth purses – but Tony can see the twitch at the corners that indicates he’s trying not to smile.

“Now, now, boys,” Natasha says, not doing anything to hide her own wry smirk. “Let’s all be civil and remember who the real enemy is, here.”

Steve turns and raises an eyebrow at her in question.

“The navy,” she sighs.

Bucky and Rhodey laugh and clink glasses with her, and Tony thinks this might be the nicest dinner party he’s ever been to in his life.

As if on cue, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out to check the display and feels his brow furrow. It’s his mother.

“Sorry, I have to answer this or she’ll call me every 30 seconds,” he sighs, thumbing the answer button. “Hi, Mom.”

Steve grins, as though he thinks he might get some dirt on Tony out of this conversation, and really, Tony wouldn’t argue against it. There’s a pretty good chance his half of the conversation will hold some embarrassing tidbit for his audience.

“Your father has been trying to reach you,” she tells him immediately, voice holding a note of disappointment. He rolls his eyes. “He’s called you several times this week, and you haven’t answered a single one. He’s starting to worry.”

“Dad’s not worried about me, Dad’s worried about his third quarter projections,” Tony tells her.

“Of course he’s worried about you,” she argues. Tony can hear in her voice that she doesn’t really believe it, though. “He’s very excited for you to come home for the summer.”

“Yeah, because he’s got a list a mile long of projects he wants me to fix for his R&D department.”

“Oh, Anthony,” she sighs. “I do wish you two would try a little harder to get along.”

Tony leans back, glancing at the ceiling and doing his best to ignore the others at the table. He’d kind of like to just leave the booth and take this call out to the street, but he’s blocked in by Steve on one side and Rhodey on the other.

“Sure, Mom.”

“Anyway,” she says brightly, changing the subject. “I also wanted to check in and see if you were still going to be flying out to attend the Foundation’s gala.”

Ah, yes. The annual Maria Stark Foundation gala, his mother’s charity pet project that has her name on it but is mostly delegated to an army of personal assistants.

“Oh, is that coming up?” he says innocently. He knows it’s coming up, his mother – or, rather, her assistant – has been sending him email reminders every four days for the last month.

“Oh, Anthony, you know full well it’s coming up,” she says, mild exasperation in her tone. Really, all her tones are only coloured with ‘mild’ emotions. “It’s in two weeks!”

“Yes, Mom, Patricia has been sending me regular reminders about your party.”

“It’s _hardly_ a party, Tony. It’s an important charitable benefit for underprivileged children.”

Tony sighs. He knows he shouldn’t make fun of his mom’s foundation – it really does do good work, and his mom’s been passionate about it for as long as Tony’s been alive.

“Sorry, Mom. I think I’m still coming. Depends on homework and stuff, but it should be fine.”

“Good!” she says cheerily, ignoring the somewhat ambiguous answer. “And are you bringing a plus one?” she asks, a note of slyness coming into her voice. He can’t help but roll his eyes at that one.

“No, Mom, I’m not bringing a date. You won’t miss your chance to foist me off on yet another marriage-appropriate socialite who’d somehow miraculously managed to ‘grow into’ her nose over spring break.”

“Tony!” she gasps, scandalized. But Rhodey is shaking with laughter beside him, so he keeps going.

“And I promise to be on my best behaviour so none of them suspect I’m really a complete mess and not worth the sizeable inheritance they’ve all got their eyes on.”

He risks a glance at Steve. He’s frowning a little, even as he chats idly with Bucky about something, pretending not to listen to Tony’s half of the conversation. Really, his mom isn’t that bad about setting him up at these events, she only ever introduces him around to a couple of respectable ladies and then leaves him be to go flirt with the hot wait staff. But he wants to make sure Steve knows that once he ships out, once he heads overseas, Tony won’t be pining for him.

Well, he probably _will_ be, he’s not a moron, but he doesn’t want _Steve_ to know that. Truthfully, he’d _like_ to take Steve to L.A. and bring _him_ to the gala, but it’s the weekend after Steve ships out, and he’ll be roasting in some desert by then.

“Oh, Tony,” his mom sighs, but he can hear the note of amusement in her voice. “You’re hardly a complete mess. Perhaps a tiny mess.”

Tony snorts out a laugh. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Okay, dear, I’ll let you get back to what you were doing. And please call your father.”

“What’s that, Mom? I think you’re breaking up. I didn’t hear you!”

“Very funny,” she says. “Good night, Anthony.”

“Night, Mom.”

He hangs up the phone and lets his head rest back against the booth, staring at the ceiling.

“Man, it’s really cute how your mom thinks you have time for a relationship.”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “She wants to marry me off to the first available socialite because she thinks it might ‘settle me down’, and Dad’s constantly reminding me to ‘sow my wild oats’ while I still can, before he chains me to a desk in R&D and has me churning out patents like a trained monkey.”

He keeps his tone light, making sure no one takes him too seriously. Truthfully, it _does_ bother him a little, but he wouldn’t want anyone else to know that.

“I especially liked how you actively avoided making a commitment there, very skillful,” Rhodey grins. “And bitching about working for your dad when you and I both know that when you get into the workshop you get in the zone and no one sees you for days.”

It’s true, but Tony feels the need to defend himself anyway. “Hey, now, that’s not true. I see people all the time when I’m working.”

Rhodey snorts. “Please. Once you get your hands into SI full time, I probably won’t ever see you again. You’ll never come up for air, you don’t like _anyone_ as much as you like tinkering with your tools.”

“Aw, honeybear, do you often think about me tinkering my tool?” Tony simpers, fluttering his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

Bucky bursts out laughing, but Steve is just watching their banter quietly. Tony shrugs.

“Anyway,” he sniffs, if I come out of the workshop Mom’ll just try to marry me off again. Who has time for that? It’s like she thinks I can’t run the company if I’m not married.”

Rhodey grins. “You’re better off _not_ being married, your spouse will completely forget what you look like when you get your first Eureka moment.”

“I come by it honestly,” Tony muses. “I’m frankly surprised my parents ever saw one another long enough to have me. I suspect there may have been a turkey baster involved.”

Tony is saved from whatever reply Rhodey might come up with by their server stopping by with a tray overflowing with platters of chicken wings. They dig in, and if Tony spends most of the meal pressing his leg against Steve’s thigh, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

 

+++++

 

The rest of dinner is uneventful. They visit and chat and get to know one another. Tony learns that Bucky and Steve had grown up together in Brooklyn, and that it had been Steve’s idea to join the army first. He learns that Steve’s own mother had passed away when he was a young teenager, and Bucky’s family had taken him in until they’d graduated. He learns that they’d both worked their way through basic training and entered the Green Beret program at an unusually young age.

By contrast, Bucky and Steve learn that Tony had started attending MIT at 15, and that he’s working on his third masters degree now before he goes back to Stark Industries and accepts his legacy. They learn that Stark Industries has had government weapons contracts for 30 years. They learn that Tony went to his first boarding school at age four.

It’s a nice dinner, and Tony knows, by the time they’re paying the bill that it had been a mistake. They’d had a nice time, he’d gotten to know Bucky and his friend, Natasha, and the beer and wings had been tasty. But he’d spent the night laughing and smiling and talking with Steve, and sure, they’ve pretty much spent the last two days together, but every minute is just one more minute he has to develop feelings for Steve.

He pushes it out of his mind as they leave the pub. He quirks an eyebrow at Steve, knowing next week he’ll probably regret it when he’s lonely and missing this man he’s only just met, but right now he just wants Steve to come home with him again and spend the night in his bed.

“See you tomorrow, then?” Bucky asks Steve, smirking. Steve rolls his eyes but takes a step closer to Tony anyway.

“It was nice to meet you both,” Natasha says, eyes boring into Tony’s. He can’t help but feel like he’s under a microscope, but he just grins his sparkling press-tour smile and gives her a jaunty wave.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Rhodey says, starting to walk toward the subway station. Bucky and Natasha start walking down the sidewalk the other direction, and Tony steps out onto the curb to hail a cab.

“Thanks for meeting us for dinner,” Steve says.

“Hey, not a problem. How was your MCAD thing?”

“It was good,” Steve shrugs. “I’ll apply after my tour, I think. If I don’t decide to try and work into the officer ranks.”

Tony’s spine feels a chill. “Ah. Army for life?”

Steve nods, giving Tony a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Well, art school isn’t real cheap, and with Ma gone, I don’t have a lot of options for income. Officers get a decent paycheck.”

 _Sure, if they survive long enough to collect it,_ Tony thinks. He doesn’t say it out loud though, because it would ruin the evening, and might tip Steve off to the fact that Tony’s fascination with him is about more than enjoyable casual sex.

They get in the cab and Tony watches the streetlights go by as they make their way toward his building. They don’t say much on their way up the elevator, and when they get upstairs Steve looks like he might be about to say something, finally.

The problem is, Tony’s pretty sure the words are going to be something along the lines of ‘you’re getting too attached, we should stop this, I’ll go home,’ and that’s the last thing he wants, so he cuts off any attempt on Steve’s part to speak by kissing him, hot and fast and dirty.

Steve moans, and after only a split second’s hesitation, returns the kiss just as hard.

Tony winds them through the apartment, not separating their mouths as he walks backwards toward the bedroom, pulling Steve along with him. He works at Steve’s fly and shirt buttons on the way, toeing off his shoes and pulling at his own clothes so that by the time they get to his bed, they’re mostly naked. Tony still has one sock on and Steve’s undershirt is wrapped around his neck, but close enough.

Steve trips a little on the waistband of his jeans as they slide to the floor, and Tony laughs, hopping on one foot to peel off his last sock. He loses his balance and falls sideways onto the bed, and Steve bursts out laughing.

“Hey,” Tony says haughtily. “I am the picture of elegance and grace, goddammit.”

“Absolutely,” Steve agrees, eyes dancing. “Graceful as a newborn giraffe.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Tony nods decisively, pulling Steve onto the bed with him. Steve leans in and kisses him, lips still twitching as though he’s fighting a grin. “You know, Rogers, I feel like you’re not taking this seriously,” Tony grouses.

“Not even a little,” Steve says, and his voice sounds odd. Before Tony can wonder about it, Steve leans forward and kisses him hard again.

“We could play a game,” Tony suggests breathlessly when Steve finally pulls away from the kiss. “If you think you trust me.”

Steve grins. “I trust you, Tony.”

“You don’t even know me,” Tony argues. “That’s an idiotic thing to say.”

“And yet, you asked anyway.”

“Technically I didn’t _ask._ ”

Steve rolls his eyes and delivers a sharp, fairly painless smack to Tony’s ass. “I thought we were playing a game.”

Tony grins, then flops to the side, reaching for the second drawer of the night stand. Steve runs a warm hand up the back of his leg while he rummages, and he can’t help the little shiver as his thumb brushes up the inside of Tony’s thigh, the undercurve of his ass.

He hauls himself back up triumphantly, a collection of neckties clutched in his fist as he grins up at Steve.

Steve blinks at him for a moment. “Are we… are we going out somewhere?”

Tony blinks back, stunned and confused for a brief moment, and then he snorts out a laugh. “No, handsome. We’re not going anywhere. I have five ties here. You have four extremities, and my bed has four poster legs. Does that math add up for you?”

Steve swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing roughly as a light flush dusts his cheeks. “Oh.”

“Any questions?”

Steve looks at him for a long moment, then back to the fistfull of ties. Tony starts to wonder if maybe he’s stepped wrong, and Steve’s about to tell him he has somewhere to be in the morning and he should go.

“Um. What’s the fifth one for?”

Tony arches an eyebrow, doing his best to look and sound more confident than he feels. “Blindfold.”

Steve’s voice is a little strained when he speaks again, after a long moment of staring at the ties. “That’s… um. I’ve never…”

“That’s fine,” Tony says, moving to put the ties back on the night stand. “It was just a thought. No worries, though, we don’t have to –”

“I want to.”

“Oh. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he looks less uncomfortable now, and his cock is hard in his lap. Tony swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, meets Steve’s eye again.

“So. Game?”

“Yeah. Right. Um. Game.” Tony blinks, glances at the ties in his hand. “I’d like to tie you down, blindfold you. And then we’ll play Truth or Tease.”

“Truth or Tease?”

“Like Truth or Dare. You ever play that? Slumber parties as a kid?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Gonna need a rundown for your version, though.”

“I,” Tony says, his grin turning predatory, “am going to tie you to the bed, and then I’m going to start touching you. Maybe I’ll stroke you, maybe I’ll suck you, or finger you, or ride you. Play with your nipples, whatever strikes my fancy.”

“This sounds like quite the game.”

“That’s not all,” Tony continues, gently gliding Steve to the middle of the bed, coaxing him to lay down, pressing gentle kisses to whatever skin he can reach – neck, face, chest. “While I’m doing all that, I’m going to be asking you questions. If you answer, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing. If you hesitate – well, so will I. And if you refuse…” Tony shrugs. “Then I’ll stop what I’m doing altogether.”

“Oh.” Steve’s voice comes out quiet and soft. “That’s. Wow.”

“We don’t have to,” Tony says. “If you don’t want to, Steve…”

“No, it’s fine. It’s good. I can – I want to.”

Tony grins at him. “Okay, then, soldier. Spread ‘em.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he obediently lays down in the middle of the bed and spreads his arms out, hands reaching for the corners, and spreads his legs wide as well.

“Good,” Tony says, and then he quickly and deftly uses the ties to secure Steve’s wrists to the bed, then straddles his waist, holding the fifth tie up in front of his own chest.

“What if I want to ask you a question?” Steve asks, lifting his head so Tony can wrap the tie around it and knot it.

“Then ask it,” Tony says, shifting back a little so that Steve’s cock is cradled in the cleft of his ass. He leans down and kisses Steve’s mouth, his lips feather-light and gentle.

“Will you answer?” Steve asks, gasping a little as Tony’s fingers trail down his chest and tweak a pink nipple.

“I will if you win the game,” Tony says, leaning to the side to press a hot kiss to the thin skin of Steve’s wrist, just below the silk argyle fabric.

“How will I know if I win?”

“I’ll let you know,” Tony says, shifting off Steve to the side, hands roaming down all that lovely, pale skin. His hands bump over the ridges and valleys of Steve’s muscles, and he congratulates himself on a wonderful idea. Like this, he can look and touch his fill without having to school his face so Steve can’t read it. He can just touch and taste to his heart’s content.

“Seems a little unfair, to me,” Steve says, but there’s no heat in the words. He sighs a little when Tony scrapes his blunt fingernails down the sides of his waist, scratching down his hips to his thighs.

“Guess you shoulda thought to ask that before I’d tied you down,” Tony says, barely able to keep the laughter out of his voice.

“Guess I’ll have to learn from my mistake,” Steve says. “Tony, I –”

Tony shuts him up with a kiss, then, and squirts some lube into his hand and wraps it around Steve’s cock. The scent of strawberries fills the air, because he’d chosen the flavoured stuff out of the drawer. He starts stroking Steve’s dick – not rough or fast, just a light touch and a slow motion to get the blood flowing.

Steve moans, shifts his hips, arches his back a little as Tony’s hand speeds up, little by little. The squelching sound of the lube is loud in the room, only topped by the rough, stuttered breaths heaving out of Steve’s chest as he thrusts up into Tony’s fist. Tony works him hard, hand stroking and twisting. He brings his other hand to Steve’s balls, rolls them in his palm, feels them get tight, and –

Tony stops, pulls his hands away, and moves back. Steve, legs shaking, groans out a disappointed sound. “Tony, what –”

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” Tony asks, then.

“What? What are you –”

“Truth or Tease, Steven. You want me to touch you again? Answer the question.”

“I was – God, I was 17.”

“Hm, that old?”

“Fuck, Tony, I was close.”

“I know that,” Tony says, chuckling a little low in his throat.

“So _this_ is how I’m gonna die,” Steve pants out, dropping his head back on the pillows. “I always wondered.”

Tony grins, even though Steve can’t see it, and he reaches for Steve’s cock, hard and bobbing. He starts stroking again, starting slow and working his pace up. It doesn’t take nearly as long this time for Steve’s legs to start shaking, his balls to tighten, when Tony pulls away again. Steve lets out a whine, hips thrusting into the air, seeking out that friction and pressure again.

“Who was it with?”

“What?”

“When you lost your virginity. Who was it with?”

“It was – Jesus, Tony, you sadist, it was my boyfriend in high school. Arnie.”

“Was it good?”

Steve takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Tony watches in fascination as his cock bobs again, the cradle of his pelvis clenching. A shimmering drop of precome drools out the slit and slides down the length of him.

“It was – it was fine. We were both – we did okay. It wasn’t bad.”

Tony crawls to kneel on the bed between Steve’s spread thighs, and kisses his way up Steve’s thigh to his hips. He licks a stripe up Steve’s cock, the artificial strawberry flavour of the lube bright and sticky on his tongue, and takes Steve in his mouth. He starts the blowjob slow, sliding his mouth wetly as far as he can go until he feels Steve at the back of his throat, then sucks as he slowly lifts his head. He repeats it a few more times before he starts to speed up, starts to ratchet up the suction.

“God, Tony, you – fuck, you’re so good,” Steve gasps, breath heaving as he writhes in his bonds.

Tony bobs faster, sucks harder, lets saliva accumulate in his mouth so everything is hot and wet and slick. Steve is panting, every breath out a sharp bark of a moan as he gets closer and closer to his orgasm. Tony sighs as a burst of precome spurts across his tongue, then pulls away and off, breathing hard as Steve cries out in dismay.

“Tony!” he cries, his whole body shuddering on the brink of coming, but not falling over the edge.

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Wha – what?”

“Your eggs, Rogers. How do you like them?”

“I like… fuck, I like omelets, okay? Please, please, can I have your mouth again?”

Tony feels a surge of arousal – which had been simmering on the edge of his consciousness – at the broken sound of Steve’s voice, and runs his hands up Steve’s thighs soothingly. “But I still have more questions,” he says, putting a little bit of a pout into his voice.

“Oh, God,” Steve breathes.

“What’s your dirtiest fantasy?” Tony asks. He watches in awe as a blush lights up Steve’s skin, face and neck and chest.

“God, Tony, that’s –”

“Have you ever worn lingerie?” Tony asks, not waiting for an answer. He has a sudden mental picture of Steve wearing frilly lace panties, maybe a garter belt and some stockings, and his cock throbs with want.

“No,” Steve gasps, hips twitching as he tries to get something, anything, touching his cock.

Tony grins to himself, reaches for the lube and squirts a little more onto his fingers. He swipes some of the slick over his hole, dipping a finger tip in to get himself slicker inside, then reaches over for a condom and rolls it down Steve’s dick. Steve whines, shivering, muscles tensing. Tony pours a little more lube onto his fingers and wipes it onto Steve, until there’s no friction on the condom.

Tony straddles him and positions the head of Steve’s cock at his entrance, but he doesn’t sink down, even though he desperately wants to. “ _Would_ you ever wear lingerie?”

Steve groans. “If it would make you let me come, I would.”

Tony chuckles, low and throaty, and slowly slides down Steve’s cock. He hisses a little at the stretch and burn, but Steve is hot and hard and thick inside him, and he loves it.

“God, Tony, you’re so fucking tight,” Steve babbles.

Tony starts slowly shifting his hips, lifting himself only slightly and then slowly dropping down, barely fucking himself on Steve’s dick.

“Have you ever had a threesome?”

Steve isn’t hesitating anymore, his jaw clenched and his muscles tight as he answers, shifting his hips up to meet Tony’s down thrusts. “No.”

“Would you?”

“Probably not,” he admits.

Tony starts moving faster. He’d wanted to draw this out longer, maybe find out a little bit more about Steve, but now he wants to come – and he can tell Steve is ready, too. He’s moaning and whining with each thrust of his hips, and Tony starts lifting himself higher, pistoning his hips faster, until he’s bouncing roughly on Steve’s cock, crying out harshly as Steve slides across his prostate.

“Do … do you ever want kids?” Tony gasps, keeping up the game even as he feels himself edging closer and closer to coming. Steve is thrusting roughly up into him, and the room is filled with the sounds of the bed creaking and flesh slapping against flesh.

“I don’t know,” Steve pants, not slowing his hips. “I’m on the fence, but I always – oh, fuck, _Tony_ – I always thought I’d like them.”

“That’s – oh, wow – that’s nice.”

“Tony, _please,”_ Steve breathes. “You feel so good.”

“Do you believe – oh, fuck – do you believe in soulmates?” Tony asks, clenching his teeth and thrusting his hips down harshly as he feels his orgasm overcome him. He cries out, throws his head back, and comes, spurting across Steve’s chest. Steve growls, thrusting up, and up, and up, and his whole body trembles as he arches and comes, cock throbbing deeply inside Tony’s body. Tony keeps rocking on him, milking his orgasm to the very last, until Steve makes a choked sound and relaxes all at once, bonelessly, to the bed.

Tony flops over on his chest, panting hard and completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just laid down in a puddle of his own come.

“Steve?”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He’s breathing, but he’s completely still and relaxed. Tony gingerly reaches up and undoes the knot of the blindfold, his fingers trembling with the effort.

Steve’s eyes remain closed, the lashes slightly damp. Tony realizes he’s passed out – the edging, the hard orgasm, had been enough to make him lose consciousness.

Honestly, if Tony weren’t so infatuated, he might be offended.

He his eyes scan over Steve’s still, relaxed features for a moment. He takes a breath and whispers out one last question.

“Will you stay?”

Steve, of course, doesn’t answer.

 

+++++

 

The rest of the week goes pretty much the same way. They spend most of their days doing silly touristy things that don’t seem at all silly when he’s doing them with Steve, and at night Steve comes back to his apartment and they have sex. Tony keeps waiting for the sex to get stale, but it never does. As a matter of fact, everything he does with Steve is enjoyable and interesting. Some days Steve reads a book or sketches beside him while Tony works on his laptop. Other days, they watch ridiculously cheesy action movies together on the couch, munching on popcorn. To Tony, it’s comfortable. It’s perfect.

By the end of the week, he knows he’s fucked up and fallen in love. It’s Saturday and they’ve spent the whole week together, and not only is Tony not tired of being around Steve, but he’s actually dreading the next day, when Steve will leave – and walk out of his life forever.

He wants to suggest they keep in touch, that they try to make it work, but he’d told Steve from the beginning he could handle keeping things casual, and he doesn’t want to admit he’d been wrong.

On Saturday morning, Tony wakes with a ball of dread in his stomach. Steve is set to leave at five the next morning, so Tony knows this is their last day. He doesn’t know how he had managed to fall so hard so fast for Steve, but it had happened.

Tony wakes up first, for once, but instead of getting out of bed to start the coffee pot, he just turns his head and watches Steve sleep, drinking in his fair skin, light hair, pink pouty lips. He’s still in sleep, looking at least 10 years younger, his face lax. His dark eyelashes sweep across his cheeks, long and straight and full.

Tony sighs, ignoring the lump in his throat and the slightly sick feeling in his gut, because he knows that in less than 24 hours, he’ll be saying goodbye. He’s not sure how he’ll get through it, how he’ll manage to keep pretending their affair had meant nothing to him. Why had he agreed to this? What had made him think he could manage not to feel anything for Steve?

He knows that’s not exactly fair, though. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had a relationship that was based purely on physical attraction. Experience alone had dictated that he would be able to spend a week with Steve and then not give him a second thought. But Steve had been… Steve. Good and valiant and sweet, funny and wry and sarcastic. And kind. God, Tony had never put much stock in kindness as a personality trait, but Steve was so innocently kind. Tony’s used to kindness when it was self-serving, not this complete, all-encompassing _truth_ that Steve is.

Steve snuffles a little in his sleep, shifting a little closer to Tony. He can’t help himself then, and he knows his eyes are probably soft and dopey, so he closes them and leans forward to press a gentle, feather-light kiss against Steve’s sharp cheekbone.

When he pulls back, Steve’s eyes are fluttering open.

“Hey,” he rumbles, voice hoarse and deep.

“Hey,” Tony answers, relieved when his voice comes out clear and solid.

“Did you sleep good?” Steve asks, struggling up on his elbows and blinking sleepily. “What time is it?”

“About nine,” Tony says, laying back and stretching. He yelps when Steve wraps his arms around Tony and rolls him close, so Tony’s laying on top of Steve, hips resting in the cradle of Steve’s thighs, skin pressed against sleep-warmed skin.

“Hey,” Steve says again, and this time his voice is rough with more than sleep. He grins, slow and sultry, up at Tony,

Tony snickers and leans down, pressing their mouths together. He keeps his lips closed in deference to morning breath, but the kiss is no less heated for it. Before long, Steve deepens the kiss and rolls them again, pressing Tony back into the mattress and working his way between Tony’s legs. He feels his cock swelling and hardening as Steve’s own erection rubs against his, and then Steve’s reaching over for a handful of lube from the pump bottle, wrapping that big, strong hand around their cocks as he leans up on his other arm, and stroking them together.

Tony moans and lolls his head back, unable to keep himself from shifting his hips, trying to roll them and thrust into the hot, tight grip of Steve’s hand.

Steve keeps kissing him, keeps working his hand, and Tony doesn’t know if it’s the fact that it’s morning, the fact that he hasn’t had coffee yet, or the fact that it’s Steve, but he feels himself heading straight to the edge of orgasm, spurred on by Steve’s groans and harsh breaths as he chases his own climax.

Steve comes first, the hot splatter of come between them just enough to push Tony over, and he gasps as his balls tighten and adds his own release to the mix.

Steve pants and presses gentle kisses across Tony’s brow while they come down, then flops over on his back, grinning over at him.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Tony breathes, flushed and panting.

Steve rolls back onto his side and props his head up on his elbow, running gentle fingers up and down Tony’s ribcage. “Stay here,” he says, pressing a smacking kiss to Tony’s chest. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Uh, can I get up and wash the come off my chest?” Tony asks, eyebrow quirked.

Steve rolls his eyes and bounds out of the bed, making his way to the bathroom. He comes back a moment later with a warm, wet rag, which he tosses in Tony’s direction. Tony catches it, then watches forlornly as Steve grabs his pants off the floor and pulls them up, covering that fantastic bare ass.

While he wipes his stomach off and stretches again, languidly, he watches Steve leave the bedroom, and then he can hear the telltale signs of coffee being made, and various other sounds in the kitchen that indicate Steve’s messing around in there. He sighs and lays back against the pillows, letting his eyes drift closed.

He realizes he must have dozed when he jerks awake, Steve’s weight as he sits down on the bed shifting him enough to bring him back to alertness. He yawns and sits up, then smiles gratefully at Steve as he hands over a steaming mug of coffee. Beside them on the bed, Steve’s laid out a tray with toast corners, little dishes of jam, squares of cheese, and a dish of grapes. Tony stares at it for a moment, then glances back up at Steve.

“I had grapes?”

Steve grins. “No, I picked them up yesterday.”

“Huh. Well. This looks good,” he says, feeling his cheeks heat a little.

It’s not the first time Steve’s brought him breakfast and coffee in bed. But something about it today, knowing it’s the last day they can do this, the last day they can spend together before Steve goes off to fight in a war, of all things, makes Tony’s gut clench. He desperately wants to tell Steve how he feels, to tell Steve that this has been the best week of his life and he never should have assumed he could get through it without his heart getting involved. Honestly, Steve had brought him breakfast in bed, and coffee, and is currently holding a toast corner, dipped in some kind of jam, out for Tony to take a bite. Steve _has_ to feel something for him, doesn’t he? People don’t just bring breakfast in bed for their casual fucks, do they?

But he’s not brave enough to say it, to ask. He leans forward and delicately takes a bite of the toast – the jam is sweet, with a hint of cinnamon – and chews it, watching as Steve watches him.

“This is good,” Tony says once he’s swallowed the bite. His throat is dry, so he takes a sip of the coffee.

“It’s apple pear jam I got from the farmer’s market yesterday,” Steve tells him.

“What else did you do while I was in classes yesterday?” Tony grins, trying to make the carefree smile reach his eyes.

“I just got the grapes and the jam and the cheese,” Steve says, ducking his head a little. “I thought it might make a nice breakfast today.”

Tony grins, feeling a little more genuine with it this time, and holds one of the grapes out for Steve to take. Steve takes it, letting his lips brush against Tony’s fingertips, and Tony can hear the soft pop of his teeth biting into the firm flesh.

 _I love you,_ he thinks.

“Anything you want to do today?” He says. “Anything you need to do before – before you go?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nah. Not much to take with me. I’ve got my duffel, the train will take me right to base and then I’ll ship out from there.”

“Do you – do you and Bucky both go right away?”

Steve shakes his head. “Buck’s not due to ship out for a few weeks, yet, and we’re not sure where he’s gonna end up. Could be the same base as me, could be clear on the other side of the country.”

Tony doesn’t really know what to say. He thinks it sounds lonely. He thinks Steve’s going to be surrounded by men like him, men who are big and strong and brave and good, and Tony can’t hold a candle to them. He’s just a skinny nerd – albeit a rich one – born with a silver spoon in his mouth, whose only contribution to society has been weaponry designs and various cash injections into whatever charity his mom is championing.

Of course he can’t tell Steve how he feels – he doesn’t really have anything to offer Steve except money. And Steve… well, Steve doesn’t seem the type to give a shit about that.

“We could watch a movie?” he suggests.

Steve smiles and holds some more toast out for Tony to bite into, nodding. “A movie sounds good.”

 

+++++

 

They do spend the day lounging around Tony’s place. They share a bath in the extra large soaker tub in Tony’s bathroom, and they cuddle on the couch while watching movies on Tony’s big screen television. He can’t help the deep feeling of melancholy that’s settled over him, but he does his best to ignore it – or at least hide it.

Steve is subdued, too, but Tony’s pretty sure that’s just because he starts a tour of duty tomorrow. Of course he’s quiet – he’s going into a combat zone.

That train of thought only makes Tony feel worse, knowing that Steve’s going to be at risk on top of everything else. One more reason not to tell Steve about his feelings.

Besides, they’ve only known one another a week. He can’t _actually_ be in love, that would be ridiculous. It takes longer than a week to fall in love with someone.

He’s just smitten. Who wouldn’t be?

Tony wants to take Steve out to dinner. Someplace nice, with rich table cloths and flickering candles, where he can order the wine in French and they can share tiramisu with just the one fork. It’s ridiculous and cheesy and overly romantic, but he wants it anyway.

But Steve says he’d prefer to stay in. He says he’ll cook, so they wander down the block to a little bodega where they can buy a few ingredients, and when they go back up to Tony’s apartment Steve puts together a simple pasta dish that, quite frankly, is more delicious than any pasta Tony has had at any of those upscale restaurants, anyway.

They eat pasta and drink wine, and after dinner Tony even helps Steve clean up the kitchen. They stand side by side at the sink, Steve elbow deep in sudsy water, shoulders and elbows brushing against each other.

Tony never wants it to end.

Steve suggests a walk after dinner, so they stroll around the block, watching the sun set behind the highrises of downtown Boston. They hold hands, and Tony knows it’s silly, but he feels like it’s all real. Like they’re a normal couple out for a normal after-dinner stroll. Like everything is okay, and in the morning they’ll have a lazy Sunday and Steve won’t go anywhere.

Tony’s always been pretty good at lying to himself.

When they get back to Tony’s place, it’s not late, but neither of them feels like finding something else to do. Steve takes Tony’s hand and leads him to the bedroom. They both head into the bathroom and brush their teeth, and then head into the bedroom. Tony’s ready to strip off, ready to make a tension-breaking quip, ready to do anything to lighten the mood, but Steve steps up to him, presses their lips together softly, and kisses him breathless.

His big hand presses against Tony’s cheek, thumb lightly brushing his jaw, as he kisses and kisses and kisses. It’s soft and sweet and so, so good. Tony melts into it, melts into Steve’s touch, hands sliding up around Steve’s shoulders and neck until he can bury his fingers into the short, cropped hair at his nape.

“Take me to bed,” Tony whispers into Steve’s mouth.

“God, Tony, you –” Steve nips at Tony’s jaw, hot breath panting against Tony’s flushed skin “– you drive me crazy.”

“Come on, Rogers, enough chit chat. Take your pants off and fuck me.” He tries to keep his voice level, tries to keep the moment light and fun, but his voice cracks and his need leeches out, fingers clawing at Steve’s back.

“Ssh,” Steve whispers against his lips, big hands cradling Tony’s face and head to hold him still. He presses in to a slow, deep kiss, and Tony’s knees turn to jelly. “We’ll get there,” Steve continues, peppering light kisses across Tony’s face, his brow. “We’ll get there. Just -- just want to take my time.”

And if Tony’s legs hadn't already been wobbly, if his heart hadn't already been completely given over to Steve, now would have been the moment it had happened. This, right here, would have been the moment he fell head over heels in love -- with Steve’s hands petting at him, kneading into muscles, and his mouth licking at tony’s lips and jaw and neck.

Tony wraps his hands around Steve’s neck, locks his fingers together for stability, and hops up, hitching his legs over Steve’s hips and pressing forward. Steve’s hands automatically drop down to wrap under Tony’s thighs and support him there, keeping them locked together so that now Tony has to tip his chin down into the kiss. He takes control of it, trying to pour all his feelings, all his secrets, into his kisses. Everything he refuses to say, everything he _can’t_ say, he tries to tell Steve with the way he kisses him.

Steve moans lightly against Tony’s mouth, pulling Tony’s body more tightly against his own so their erections grind together. Tony doesn't even feel the motion when Steve starts walking, moving them toward Tony’s bed. He doesn't know anything but Steve’s lips and tongue and teeth, soft and slick and warm, until Steve climbs onto the bed on his knees, shuffling them forward until he can gently lay Tony back on the mattress. His muscles cord and strain with the effort. He doesn't stop kissing Tony as he does it, just moves his kisses down Tony’s neck, pushing his shirt up so he can access Tony’s torso, pressing wet, sucking kisses against his chest.

Tony’s panting, arching his back and rolling his hips, even as Steve slides down his body, dipping his tongue into Tony’s navel. He shivers, fingers clawing into Steve’s short hair, and tries to keep himself from confessing ill-advised feelings.

Steve pushes Tony's shirt up and off, kissing a line up and down his stomach, then across to Tony's hip as he works at his fly. He pushes his pants down to his knees, kissing down the top of Tony’s thigh as he keeps pushing, taking Tony’s socks with him, until Tony is naked on the bed with Steve above him.

“You’re gorgeous,” Steve breathes. “I just – I want to memorize this. You, like this, looking at me like that.”

It sounds like “ _I love you_ ,” but Tony knows it isn't. Can’t be. But he can let himself pretend, for now. He’ll take it.

“Please,” he says, not sure what he’s begging for. For Steve to say the words? For Steve to undress him, to touch him?

To stay?

He shakes off the thought, impossible as it is, and moves to pull at Steve’s clothes. Steve presses his hands down to the mattress, mouthing at Tony’s skin – his hips, belly, rib cage.

“Let me,” Steve tells him, voice low and husky and warm. Tony’s head falls back to the bed, and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply. “Let me – just let me touch you,” Steve says. It sounds like ‘ _worship you_.’ It _feels_ like Steve is worshipping Tony’s body right now. He can’t get enough, but it’s almost too much. It makes Tony want to simultaneously shy away from it and hold it – hold Steve – to him forever.

Tony arches a little under Steve’s touch, but he relaxes into it, letting Steve touch him as he wishes. “You’re such a tease,” he says, trying to make it a joke, trying to lighten the mood, but it comes out hollow, flat.

“I just want to burn it into my memory,” Steve says, lips brushing against Tony’s hip bone and earning a full-body shiver. “I want to make it last, so I can remember every second of it.”

“Please,” Tony gasps again, his neck arching as Steve nuzzles into the crease of his thigh, his cheek brushing against Tony’s cock. He knows what he’s begging for this time – for Steve to mean it. For Steve to touch him and mean it. For all of this to mean _something_.

Steve kisses his way back up Tony’s stomach and chest, nipping at his collarbone and Tony knows there will be a hickey or a bruise, or a mark of some kind in the morning, and he wants it. He wants to tattoo Steve’s mark into his skin so he can have a piece of this man with him forever.

But what he has is tonight, so he decides he’ll make the most of it. When Steve reaches his mouth, he leans down into a slow, sweet kiss that makes Tony’s toes curl. This time, when Tony starts to pull at his shirt, Steve doesn’t stop him. He breaks the kiss briefly to help Tony pull the shirt over his head, and then dips his mouth right back down again to continue the kiss. As his tongue dips into Tony’s mouth, licking at the roof of his mouth, Tony moans and runs his hands over Steve’s smooth, warm skin. He traces muscles and joints and pebbled nipples with the palms of his hands, trying to commit Steve to memory.

They make quick work of Steve’s pants, and before long they’re sliding skin against skin. Steve undulates against him, nothing so rhythmic or intentional as to be labeled ‘frottage,’ just moving against each other to feel as much skin as possible. Tony’s hands cling to whatever he can reach of Steve, and he lets his legs fall open to welcome Steve into the cradle of his hips.

They don’t speak much. Steve is intent on kissing the breath out of Tony, and Tony knows if he starts talking, if he lets himself say even a fraction of what he wants to, it will all come flooding out. He can’t let that happen, so he keeps kissing Steve back and letting his hands speak his reverence for him.

Finally, when Tony’s cock is hard and leaking, his breath coming in harsh pants, Steve breaks his mouth away, rolling his forehead against Tony’s while he gasps for breath.

“God, Tony,” Steve breathes, eyes fluttering closed. “What you do to me.”

Tony swallows back any reply, knowing it would be too much of an admission, and grinds his hips up into Steve’s. Their erections slide together, and Steve gasps at the sensation.

“I need you in me,” Tony says, meaning _I need you_. He reaches for the night stand, the bottle of lube on it, and thrusts it at Steve. “Please.”

Steve pulls away, staring down at Tony’s prone form. His eyes roam up and down Tony’s naked body, fingers tracing down his chest and stomach, until he can wrap his hand around Tony’s cock. He strokes it a couple of times, slowly but firmly, before reaching for a condom and rolling it on. He lifts one of Tony’s knees up onto his shoulder, exposing him, before squirting a dollop of lube onto his fingers.

Tony obligingly arches his back, displaying his body, letting Steve see the effect he has. He grins and reaches down to stroke at his own cock – slowly, teasingly – as Steve slicks the lube over the condom on his cock, and takes a deep breath as Steve shifts, pressing the slick, blunt head of his dick at Tony’s entrance.

He moans as Steve starts to slowly push in. They’ve been fucking all week, so it’s not like he needs any prep, and he feels nothing but pressure and pleasure as Steve slides into his body.

He doesn’t waste much time letting either of them get used to the sensation. He starts thrusting slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then pressing all the way back in. He does this a few times, then takes hold of Tony’s leg, the one propped up on Steve’s shoulder, and moves it down so it’s wrapped around Steve’s waist. Tony moans at the adjustment, the change of angle meaning that while Steve may not be reaching as deep, he’s sliding along Tony’s prostate with every thrust, and it makes Tony feel tighter, like Steve is wider and thicker than he is.

“God, Tony, you’re – you’re amazing,” Steve whispers into his skin, hands sliding up Tony’s arms to link their fingers together. He presses Tony’s hands into the bed like that, then spreads his knees a little for balance. Tony widens his own legs to accommodate the move, arching his neck. Steve’s lips suck gentle kisses along the length of Tony’s throat, across his collarbone, up his jaw – wherever he can reach, really, driving Tony mad with the feeling of being full.

Tony can’t take it anymore, and he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut so that if Steve looks at him with disdain, he won’t see it, because he has to say it, has to ask – “Please kiss me,” Tony gasps. “Please, please kiss me, Steve.”

It comes out as barely more than a whisper, but Steve surges forward, hips snapping a little faster, a little harder, as he covers Tony’s mouth with his. Their lips slide together slickly, tongues tangling. The kiss is hard, deep and passionate, but not quite rough. Nothing about what they’re doing is rough. Even as Steve’s cock in him moves faster, presses deeper and harder, it’s still not rough.

Steve pants through his nose, to avoid breaking the kiss, and Tony does the same, his fingers clenching spasmodically around Steve’s in his grip. Steve moans, rotating his hips while he thrusts, and Tony keens at it, high-pitched and desperate. His cock is trapped between them, not quite getting enough friction for him to come, but more than enough to tease him mercilessly.

Steve breaks his mouth away, breathing hard and fast, rolling his forehead against Tony’s temple as he fucks into him, gasping his name over and over again.

Tony doesn’t have the breath to answer, dangling right at the edge of orgasm, desperate to come but not ready for it to be over. He just whines and grips Steve’s hands tighter. He feels like he’s floating, only barely aware of Steve stiffening above him, grinding his hips down, his cock pressing against Tony’s most sensitive places and his belly pressing Tony’s cock between them.

It’s enough to finally tip Tony over the edge, and his vision goes white, his whole body going tight as a bowstring as he comes and comes.

When his head clears a little, he feels Steve trembling and shaking above him, his whole body vibrating with it.

Tony doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He wouldn’t know what to say. He’s sure this means less to Steve than it does to him, and Steve’s about to embark on a journey halfway across the world to face death on a regular basis. He doesn’t need Tony spewing feelings all over him.

So Tony just wraps his hands around Steve’s back, holding him tightly, and letting Steve press his face into the crook of Tony’s shoulder while he shivers.

“I’m afraid,” Steve finally admits, his voice strained and tight and barely audible. “Isn’t that silly?”

“No, sweetheart,” Tony says, trying to keep his own voice under control. Trying not to cry for this brave man. “No, it’s not. You’ll – you’ll be fine. Totally fine.”

Steve doesn’t answer.

 

+++++

 

Tony wakes up alone. His body is pleasantly sore, and he can smell coffee coming from the direction of the kitchen. The apartment bears the lonely silence of desertion, so he knows Steve has already left.

The thought makes him want to curl up in a ball, to burst into tears, to scream at the gods for giving him a glimpse of this and then tearing it away.

He forces his eyes open and glances over at the empty side of the bed. There’s a little folded paper tent resting on the pillow, Tony’s name scrawled on it. He reaches for it, flipping it open.

_Tony,_

_You looked so peaceful, I couldn’t wake you. I’m sorry. Besides, this way we don’t have to have some long, drawn-out goodbye._

_I know we said we’d part ways at the end of the week, no strings, but I thought, maybe, if you wanted, you could email me. I won’t always be able to check it, there isn’t a lot of internet access overseas in the bases, but still. It’d be nice to hear from you, see how you’re doing._

_Anyway. steverog070487@gmail.com_

_Only if you want, though._

_Thanks for this week. It was really special._

_~ Steve_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter: [You can have five minutes](https://i.imgur.com/eXUjxJ2.png) by deruzard.
> 
>  


	3. Return to sender, address unknown

From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **What’s the haps?**

Hey Steve,

I know you just left yesterday, but I thought, what better time to email you than as soon as possible?

How long are you gone again? Eight months? God, that’s stupid. I mean, support our troops, serve your country, whatever, rah rah. The point is, you’re in some stupid hot desert when you could be here, in the States, bringing me breakfast in bed.

How was your flight? Do you guys fly commercial? I can’t believe I don’t know this. Will you have regular internet access? Do they let you have a cell phone? Do soldiers use the internet for anything other than facebook and porn?

I know, I’m rambling. I just… it was fun. This week. I had a good time.

I’m glad I met you.

-T

  
  


From: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

To: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

 

Subject: **Re: What’s the haps?**

Tony,

I’m glad I met you, too.

Sorry it’s taken me so long to write you back. As you can imagine, no, internet access isn’t exactly abundant. I can only have a few minutes at a time, and there are about 200 of us sharing 6 computers, so, as you can imagine, it’s hard to get through a lot of emails. I can’t tell you much about where I am. But I can tell you that no, we don’t fly commercial. We take a military plane. It’s big and uncomfortable and we have to sit with our guns on our laps for the whole flight, just in case..

I’ve never actually flown commercial. Hasn’t been a lot of money for travel, you know?

No one looks at porn on the military’s internet, Tony. The computers are in a communal tent.

Steve

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **Re: What’s the haps?**

Steve,

I can’t help but notice that you didn’t address the breakfast in bed issue. I think it goes without saying (even though I’m totally saying it) that that’s implicit agreement and you are hereby bound by LAW to come back home and make me breakfast. Preferably naked.

-T

  
  


From: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

To: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

 

Subject: **What part of communal computers is giving you trouble here?**

Tony,

I can’t believe you’re flirting with me over sporadic emails.

Okay, no, that’s not true, I totally can. I’d be surprised if you weren’t.

I got an email from Bucky. He said he’s deploying next month, but I don’t know if they’ll send him here or if he’ll be stationed somewhere else.

We had a rough mission last week. I don’t know if you heard about it on the news. Do you read the news? Anyway, it was rough. Lost two soldiers. I didn’t know either of them very well, they weren’t in my unit, but it’s just a harsh reminder of what this place can do to you.

I’m sorry. I know I’m dumping a lot on you. How’s school going?

Steve

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **I’m sorry**

Hey. You can talk to me about anything. Don’t feel like you have to censor yourself just because I’m not a soldier. I do, as it happens, read the news. It’s possible I may have set up about a thousand Google alerts about US military action, just in case I might hear something about you, or maybe even get to see a picture.

I’m sorry you lost people. I don’t know what it’s like, but I can only imagine, and I’m sorry you have to go through it.

School is fine, but with summer break coming up, I’m going to be writing finals (yawn) and then heading back out to L.A. for a few months. I got an email from my dad, he said he’s putting me to work for the summer. Next year is my last year at MIT, so I was kind of hoping for the summer off, but, well, let’s be honest, I’d spend half of it messing around in my workshop anyway. Might as well do official projects.

Only seven months to go. You’ll be back stateside in November. Maybe even in time for Thanksgiving? I don’t – my parents usually go away, but I’ll be in Cambridge. Just, you know. If you wanted to know.

-T

  
  


From: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

To: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

 

Subject: **Re: I’m sorry**

Tony,

What kinds of projects? Are you allowed to say? I just think it’s really neat, the kinds of things you can do while “messing around” in your workshop.

The summer in L.A. sounds nice, at least.

We had a good mission, yesterday. I can’t tell you any details, of course. I never can. But it was good. I feel good being here. As hard as it is to be away from home, I know we’re doing something important.

And Bucky should be over here soon, and I’ll find out if he’s going to be stationed here.

I don’t know if I’ll be home in time for Thanksgiving. But I’ll let you know. I’d like to see you.

Steve

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **Re: I’m sorry**

Mostly I’ll be working on some existing projects. There are a couple of new propulsion systems SI has been working on, and I think I can increase efficiency by 67%, if my math is right. And my math is always right.

Weapons tech has been growing in leaps and bounds lately, but I think I’ve got a few ideas up my sleeve that will revolutionize it. I’ve got this idea for a missile that’s going to blow your mind once I get the prototype. I can’t see the army _not_ buying it, really. It’s going to wipe whole cities of insurgents off the map, let me tell you.

I’ve convinced Bruce to come out for a few weeks this summer, so it’s not like I won’t get a break from it. I mean, we’re probably going to play with science, but it won’t be _job_ science. Still, it should be good. I mean, I think Bruce is going to be my new BFF. Rhodey is too busy with R.O.T.C., he never has time to hang out with me, and he doesn’t like science nearly as much as I want him to, so I’m replacing him with Bruce.

Plus, with Bruce’s chem engineering know-how, I think I can get him a gig at SI when he’s done his masters, and we can play in the lab all day after I graduate next year. I think he’s really going to be able to up my weapons game.

Anyway. I have class soon. I’ll talk to you later.

Be safe.

-T

  
  


From: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

To: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

 

Subject: **Re: I’m sorry**

Wait, you’re making weapons? That’s… I mean, should you be making weapons for SI? Isn’t that a little, I don’t know, inappropriate?

You’re only 19, Tony. You shouldn’t be coming up with ideas for missiles or guns. Weapons tech should be so far off your radar it isn’t funny. You should be building social apps or, I don’t know, cell phones.

You should be going to keggers, you should be dating, you should be going to Florida for spring break. Not building weapons. That’s not right, Tony. You’re too young. You should get to have a real life.

Steve

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **Re: Real Life**

Whoa. Um… excuse you? You seriously have a problem with me designing weapons? You don’t seem to have a problem _using_ them. You probably have three weapons on you _right now_ that I had a direct hand in designing, Steve. This is what Stark Industries _does_.

This _is_ real life.

And you know what else? What the hell makes you think you have the right – jesus, the balls on you, Rogers.

 _I_ should be going to keggers? What, you get to do the important world-saving, and I stay home and drink and date and have a real life? What does that even mean? ‘Too young.’

What, I’ll just stay here and get laid and build fucking cell phones, like that matters to the world, to _anybody_ , and you get to go and be the big hero?

This is what I was born to do, and I’m damned good at it. What I do _saves lives_. If you go into a warzone with subpar weapons and tools, what do you think your chances are of coming back home? You’d be nothing more than a battering ram, trying to poke at an enemy meaner than you. You wouldn’t stand a chance.

I can build things to save your life. I can build things to save _everybody’s_ lives. But I guess I’ll just stay here and be a party boy?

Fuck that.

-Anthony Edward Stark. As in _Stark Industries_. The global leader in technology and weapons development. Yeah, that one.

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **Re: Re: Real Life**

Hey. Look, I probably should have sent this sooner, but really, it took me a few days to cool off. I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that, Steve. I’m sorry. I just – I get a lot of shit for what I do. I didn’t want it from you, too.

But, still. I really am sorry. Write me back?

-T

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **Is everything okay?**

Hey, Steve. Just checking in. Been a few weeks since I heard from you. Everything okay? Did a sandstorm _actually_ take out your satellite internet? Give me a week, I could probably come up with a new system that would give the army proper internet access on a regular basis and still not give away your location.

-T

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **Are you okay?**

So, there isn’t anything in the news, and I can’t hack into the DoJ servers, _not that I would try to do that, CIA, if you’re reading this_ , because they rebuilt their firewalls after the last time that I totally didn’t hack in, and I haven’t figured out the work-around yet, but I’m starting to worry. If you’re pissed, that’s fine, but could you write me back anyway?

-Tony

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **Im sorry**

Steve? I’m really sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said those things. Please don’t be mad.

-Tony

  
  


From: **tstark@mit.stu.com**

To: **steverog070487@gmail.com**

 

Subject: **De Oppresso Liber**

So I guess you’re not going to write me back. That’s cool. We had a good week, it was fun, I’m glad I could keep you company the first couple weeks of your deployment. But we’re better off, right? I mean, I have a legacy, I’m working on my third doctorate at 19 years old, and I’m a billionaire. You’re a poor kid from Brooklyn who joined the army to pay for school. We’re too different. The sex was good, but that’s all it was.

Anyway. I hope you make it home okay. I’m going to finish my doctorate at Caltech. So if you ever make it out to L.A., look me up. I mean, my schedule’s going to be pretty busy, with SI and all that, but I’m sure I can squeeze you in.

-T. Stark


	4. A change would do you good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: here there be alcoholism, drug use, and some partner infidelity/gaslighting. I don't go into a lot of detail, and it's brief, but it is there.

Tony does, in fact, go to Caltech to finish his doctorate. He’d sold his condo for less than it was worth because he didn’t want to look at it anymore. His father is outraged – not so much about the part where Tony lost _money_ on the deal, so much as Tony _lost_ money on the deal. _I thought I raised you better than that, you’re supposed to be able to make a decent  business deal. It’s in your blood, Tony!_

And Tony had known how to make a better deal on it, of course. A few asides about the view, about the bakery down the street, about the proximity to certain parts of town… he could have made a great deal. He’d just wanted _out_.

He checks his email constantly, but there’s never anything from Steve. There are plenty of emails from Google, since he’d set up a Google Alert to tell him whenever the name “Steven Rogers” hits the news. It’s never his Steve, though.

Okay, not _his_ Steve. That ship has sailed. Obviously. And, besides, he just wants to make sure he doesn’t hear anything about Steve being hurt. He’s moving on. So he’d gone back to California. He moves into his parents’ pool house and skips half his labs at Caltech, but he’s still pulling a 4.0 average so no one gives him too much shit about it. Jarvis makes tsking noises whenever he comes in to clean Tony’s pool house, the rattling of glass bottles and shifting pizza boxes the only other sounds.

Tony might drink a fair bit, but that’s fine. And a little bit of coke never hurt anyone, either. He doesn’t know what Jarvis’ problem is.

He’s at the top of all his classes, and he finds people to party with every weekend. Rhodey’s still in Boston, but not for long. He’ll be shipping out soon. Tony tries not to think about it.

Tony goes to his mother’s stupid gala, and he flirts drunkenly with all the eligible bachelorettes his mother throws at him, and he takes both the Haversham daughter _and_ the youngest Cunningham son home to the pool house with him, and ends up with a little bit of gonorrhea, but antibiotics clear that right up.

His parents die.

It’s a car accident, of all the stupid – Howard fucking Stark, snuffed out by a telephone pole on a slick, winding road. A man with his talents and ambitions, killed by hydroplaning, of all things.

Tony wants to talk to Steve. See how he’s doing. Tell him about his parents. Yeah, he’d kind of hated his dad a little, but he’d loved him, too. And his mom – God, Tony misses his mom.

He doesn’t email Steve. He goes to the funeral and drinks too much scotch, and when Jarvis drives him home they have to stop the car three times for Tony to vomit out the door onto the hot pavement.

He takes a solid month to wallow. It’s not like anyone is going to stop him. He moves into the main house, though he can’t quite bring himself to move into the master bedroom. He clears out his father’s workshop in the basement with prejudice, and sets it up the way he likes it.

Rhodey comes and takes care of him for a couple of weeks, but then Tony convinces him he’s fine, people lose their parents all the time, he’ll be okay. Rhodey leaves, and Tony finds the bottom of a bottle.

He keeps most of his drinking in the workshop, alone, if for no other reason than to keep Jarvis from giving him that _look_. The look that is not so much disappointment as it is pity. It tastes like ashes in Tony’s mouth.

Then he gets the Google Alert. A group of soldiers that had gone missing months ago have finally been identified. The military had kept their names classified, hoping it would help with any hostage negotiations, but apparently there hadn’t been any demands, and the soldiers were being pronounced Killed In Action.

_Michael Richard Matthews, 27._

_Colin David Fitzgerald, 22._

_Simon Robert Smith II, 25._

_Jennifer Elizabeth Scott, 20._

_Steven Grant Rogers, 23_.

Oh, God.

Oh, _God_. Steve had been dead for months.

Tony drowns himself in a bottle and he doesn’t care anymore if Jarvis sees him. Jarvis can just go fuck himself with his judgment.

He cancels the Google Alert because he keeps getting the emails about other people named Steve Rogers, and he needs that to stop right the fuck now.

 

+++++

 

Tony takes over his father’s company. It had been expected, of course. He throws himself and everything he has into his work, designing weapons and medical equipment and engines and aircraft.

He spends his weekends drinking and fucking, and usually there’s a side of coke or ecstasy or even a few poppers involved. He rolls into Stark Industries late on Monday mornings, sunglasses firmly affixed to his face, and then he works about 20 hours a day, surviving on coffee and caffeine pills before he does it all over again the next weekend. He aggressively ignores Jarvis’ vocal disapproval, and more often than not they both choose not to discuss the times Jarvis has to clean up Tony’s room, his bed, his bathroom from the binge drinking, or how frequently Jarvis makes a simple breakfast for the one-night-stand of the week, before showing them to the door and somehow managing to make them feel less humiliated at being Tony Stark’s latest thrown-away conquest.

The weekend parties are how he reconnects with Tiberius Stone, of course. Tiberius, the slightly-older-than-him former roommate at Phillips Exeter, their boarding school in New Hampshire, to whom Tony had lost his virginity at 14. They’d both been seniors, of course, and Tony had agreed when Ty, who was 18, had told him it would be crass to go to college a virgin.

In the middle of one of Tony’s wild, drug-fuelled weekends in Ibiza, Ty sidles up behind him on the dance floor, presses his hips against Tony’s ass, and fluidly matches Tony’s moves so they’re grinding in sync. The man who had been in front of Tony rolls his eyes and turns to find a new partner, and Tony pours a little more Patron down his throat before he turns around to see whose half-hard dick is pressed against his ass.

“Tony Stark, as I live and breathe,” Ty says, eyes sparkling as he gives Tony his trademark million-watt grin.

Tony grins back, looping his arms easily around Ty’s neck. His head feels floaty and light, and his lips are buzzing. It’s maybe a little hard to focus his eyes on Ty’s face, but he’d recognize that wide shark-like grin anywhere. “Hey stranger. Haven’t seen you since Exeter,” Tony says, grinding his pelvis forward a little to the beat of the pounding music.

Ty gives him a devilish smile, blue eyes glinting in the strobe lights as he moves his hips along with Tony’s, matching him with each sway and thrust. His blonde hair – which absolutely, completely does not make Tony think of Steve because he’s having _a good time_ goddammit – is slicked back, his skin tanned golden, and he’s filled out since school, Tony can’t help but notice.

Noticing that, in fact, is how Tony comes to find himself pressed against the locked door of the men’s room of the club while Ty, uncharacteristically on his knees in front of him, proceeds to try to suck Tony’s brains out through his cock. Halfway through, Ty slides his hand up Tony’s body, rattling a small vial of poppers in front of Tony’s chest, and he quickly takes a sniff, eyes rolling and turning glassy as he comes hard, brain already so high on the drugs that his orgasm hits all five senses like a freight train.

Ty comes back to Malibu with him, and says he can do most of his work at his publishing company remotely. Most of the time Ty does his own thing and minds his own business, but he stays at Tony’s place and, when they find themselves in the same place at the same time, usually insists on fucking Tony over the nearest surface.

Tony revels in it, because when Ty is handing him a vial of poppers and fucking him rough and hard until it almost hurts, he doesn’t have to think of much else.

 

+++++

 

Three months into their new living arrangements (Tony’s not entirely sure he _asked_ Ty to move in, but Ty has taken over one of the closets and the left side of the bed, so it must have happened at some point) Tony is spending the night alone. Ty had a work party he needed to go to, and Tony hadn’t been invited.

_You know I can’t be open about us yet, babe. It’s bad for business._

Tony gets it, he does. He knows it would be bad for Stark Industries, as well. But, still, he doesn’t like being left to his own devices at home.

He spends his evening in the workshop, pretending he’s not avoiding the empty bed. It’s just easier that way. He thinks he could probably love Ty. He’s charming and handsome, well educated, and can command a room with his presence. Those are all great qualities – ideal, really. Tony thinks, probably, if his father were still alive, he might even _approve_ of Ty.

Except for the penis part, he assumes. Not that he’d ever told his parents about his fluid sexuality, but he can only assume they wouldn’t have approved. Not the best formula for creating the next Stark heir.

Still. It’s not what he’d felt for Steve, but Tony’s starting to recognize that maybe that’s not the kind of love he gets to have. No one else is _like_ Steve, so it’s not far-fetched to assume Tony won’t ever feel about anyone else the way he’d felt about Steve.

He tinkers with the plans he’s working on and pours another glass of scotch. He’s started to develop a taste for it – he’d thought it harsh, to begin with, but the more he drinks it, the better he likes it. As a matter of fact, he’s liking it more and more as the evening goes on.

It’s around two in the morning when his phone rings on the desk beside him. He blinks at it blearily, reading the caller ID on the screen. Why would Ty be calling him in the middle of the night? Tony’s certainly not in any condition to come pick him up, and his driver’s gone home for the night.

He only fumbles a little bit when he moves to answer it. Maybe he should have backed off on the scotch a little, but it had tasted good, and it makes it easier to only think about what he’s working on, instead of thinking about, well, Boston. About Steve. About his parents. About everything he’s pushed so far down into the back of his mind, because he just _can’t._

“‘Lo?”

Ty doesn’t answer, but he hears shuffling noises. Ty’s low, throaty chuckle. More shifting, and then another laugh.

That’s not Ty’s laugh, though. It’s another man, louder and more highly pitched.

“Oh, that’s good,” Ty says on the other end of the line, his voice tight. “Fuck, the mouth on you.”

Tony hurriedly disconnects the call and drops his phone back onto the desk. He’s not – what the fuck was that?

Why would Ty call him and then – was that Ty getting a blowjob? Is that what he’d been hearing?

But why would Ty…? Had it been a pocket dial? That has to be what happened, Tony decides.

Tony scrubs a hand over his face roughly, runs his fingers through his hair.

Shit. _Shit_. Is Ty fucking someone else?

Tony swallows hard, glaring at the bottle of scotch. That doesn’t make sense. Ty wouldn’t – Ty _wouldn’t_. Tony’s more drunk than he’d thought. He’s probably just imagining things. Maybe it was something else. Tony’s not really sure _what_ , he’s pretty familiar with the way Ty sounds when he’s getting his dick sucked, but still. Maybe the other man he’d heard had told a joke. Maybe it had been a dirty joke – Ty loves those. That’s what he’d meant by ‘the mouth on you.’

Whatever. It’s the booze. Gotta be. Messing with this head. Tony pushes away from the desk, leaves the scotch where it is. He’s clearly been up too long, drinking too much, and in the morning he’ll ask Ty why he’d pocket dialled at two in the morning. They’ll have a good laugh about it. When Tony’s sober.

 

+++++

 

“God, Tony, you’re getting downright paranoid!”

“I’m not being _paranoid_ ,” Tony insists, holding up the pair of underwear in his hand. “This isn’t a figment of my _imagination_.”

Ty’s eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. His biceps and forearms flex and bunch a little with the motion, and Tony can’t help but be hyper aware of Ty’s larger size compared to his own.

Not that Ty’s ever hit him, and he honestly doesn’t think Ty _would_ , but still. The thought comes unbidden. Maybe he _is_ being paranoid.

“Tony, darling, you’ve been working so hard.”

“These are not mine, and they’re too small for you,” Tony insists, shaking the red boxer briefs.

“If they’re not yours or mine, whose could they possibly be?” Ty asks, his head tilting skeptically.

“I don’t _know_ ,” Tony growls. _Whatever fuckboy you brought into our bed,_ he doesn’t add. “You tell me!”

“Well, _I_ certainly have no idea,” Ty tells him dismissively. “Tony, really. What exactly is it you’re accusing me of, here?”

“I don’t – I’m _accusing_ you of fucking someone _else_!”

Ty rolls his eyes. “Tony, we’ve been over this, and quite frankly it’s getting tiresome. You’re reading into innocent things and making stories up in your head!”

“Don’t say that,” Tony snarls. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s _true_ ,” Ty says, taking a step forward, reaching out to grasp Tony’s shoulders. He pulls Tony into a hug, ignoring Tony’s rigid demeanour. He holds Tony against him, tucking Tony’s head under his chin, and Tony doesn’t want to be charmed by this, it makes him feel like a _little kid_ when Ty does this, but then Ty brings a hand up to cup Tony’s cheek and tilt his mouth up, pressing a hard, possessive kiss there. And for a moment, Tony feels wanted – _needed –_ even as his mind screams at him that he’s right. “Tony. Tony, I would never. You’re all I want. I know you have abandonment issues, because of your parents and all, but, Love, I wouldn’t.”

Tony stays as rigid as he can. He doesn’t want to drop this, not again. They’ve had this conversation over and over, and he’d started to believe Ty, he had. Why wouldn’t he? But then, he’d found the strange underwear just under the edge of the bed. He doesn’t think Ty’s ever brought someone into their _bed_ before.

But what if Ty’s right? It makes sense Tony would have abandonment issues, doesn’t it? Steve had left, then he’d – he’d died, and his parents, and… Could he really just be pushing Ty away? Looking for excuses to keep him at a distance so he doesn’t risk getting hurt again?

Ty kisses him again, tongue delving into Tony’s mouth roughly, hands clutching him persistently. Ty really does love him, Tony knows.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Tony says, pulling away from the kiss even as he drops the underwear and wraps his arms around Ty’s neck desperately. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I keep thinking these things.”

“Hush, darling,” Ty says, holding him close, pressing him back toward the bed. He’s already pulling at Tony’s clothes. “It’s all right. I forgive you.”

 

+++++

 

In the middle of the afternoon almost a year after Ty had moved in, Tony comes home from the office early, hoping to lie down and sleep off the rest of his hangover. It’s a Monday afternoon, and Ty had insisted they hit parties all weekend, so between the drugs and the drinking Tony’s not entirely sure how he’d gotten through the first part of the day.

He hears a thumping noise as he makes his way to the bedroom, but Tony reaches for the knob with only a slight hesitation. Ty’s supposed to be in meetings all day, and Jarvis has this week off. He’d gone to England to visit his cousin, he’d said. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time Jarvis had cut his vacation short, so maybe he’d come home early. Of course, Jarvis _would_ come home from vacation early just to make Tony’s bed. Tony rolls his eyes fondly as he turns the knob.

When Tony opens the bedroom door, it’s not Jarvis in the room. It’s Ty.

Well, Ty and another man, as well as a blonde woman. They’re all three wrapped up in one another, naked and writhing, fucking in Tony’s king-sized bed.

He stares for a moment, blinking. They don’t notice him, so Tony closes the door and goes back into the hallway, sitting on the top of the stairs. He waits there, listening to the sounds of sex until they’re done. He stays on the stairs until the bedroom door opens, and Ty steps out, his robe over his shoulders but not tied. Ty flinches a little when he sees Tony on the stairs, looking up at him. Tony feels a little thrill of vindication at the look on Ty’s face – surprise, maybe even a little bit of guilt.

“Tony. You’re home.”

“I am,” Tony says, his voice low and cold. “I’m home, and you have two hours to get your shit out of my house.”

Ty stares. “What? Tony, you don’t mean –”

“Oh, I really fucking do,” Tony says, standing up and clenching his fists at his sides. He leans into Ty’s space, is gratified when Ty actually shifts back a little, ceding the ground. “Two hours, that’s it.”

He turns on his heel and stalks down the stairs, down two more floors to the workshop.

When he gets there, he pours himself a generous half of a tumbler of scotch with a trembling hand.

 

+++++

 

A year and a half after Ty moves out, Tony falls in love again. It’s different this time, better, and he knows it.

He’s stopped drugs altogether, though he still enjoys a glass of scotch or two. It’s been a long time since he got drunk alone in his workshop. He sleeps through the night at least three times a week. He’s not _happy_ , per se, but he _could_ be. He misses his mother, even his father, and he misses Steve. Or, rather, what he and Steve could have been.

He’s at a holiday party fundraiser in December when he meets her. He’s leaning against the bar, trying to find a polite way to extricate himself from the clutches of Sunset Bain, who is flirting with him with a predatory look in her eye, when a slim woman with sleek black hair and dark almond eyes sidles up to him and wraps her hands around his arm, leaning in with a simpering gaze. She’s wearing a stunning one-shouldered black dress that flows over her curves like water.

“Well, hey, stud. There you are,” she says, her voice a purr. She doesn’t wait for him to answer, just turns to Sunset with a mildly distasteful look on her pretty features. “Bain, you look lovely this evening. I see you’ve met my boyfriend?”

“Rumi. Nice to see you again,” Sunset says, her mouth twisting into a grimace that’s pretending to be a smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“We really _should_ get together for drinks again sometime soon,” the new arrival says. She turns to Tony, one corner of her mouth turning up in a smirk. “Darling, shall we go and see if we can say hello to the Jacksons?”

Tony blinks at her, then gives her a mildly confused smile back. “Sure?”

“Great! Bye, Sunset!” she says, dragging Tony off by the arm. They get just out of earshot before she starts snickering, still hauling him across the room.

“Oh, god, your _face_ ,” she laughs, eyes twinkling as she gazes up at him. Her smile is radiant, infectious. He can’t help but smile back.

“Well, it’s not every day a gorgeous young lady I’ve never met decides I’m her boyfriend,” he says, grinning back.

“I couldn’t just leave you to the wolves,” she tells him conspiratorially. “Even I’m not so cruel as that.”

“Tony Stark,” he says, holding out a hand for her in greeting. She reaches forward to shake his hand, but he clasps it and draws it to his mouth to kiss the back of her hand.

She rolls her eyes at him, but she doesn’t pull away. “Rumiko Fujikawa,” she tells him..

 

+++++

 

It’s the first normal relationship Tony’s ever had. They go on a few dates, they get to know each other, they grow closer, they get more serious. Rumiko is honest, she’s kind, she’s funny. She doesn’t take any of his shit, and she keeps him from spending all his nights wandering around his house like a ghost, working in the workshop until the wee hours of the morning. She grounds him. But she has her own life, too, so he still gets enough done that the board is happy with him. It’s a balance unlike anything he’s had before.

Even Jarvis likes her.

They don’t rush. He can see a future unfolding in front of him, and for the first time in longer than he cares to think about, it makes him happy, and he doesn’t mind taking his time to get there. Eight months in, he asks her to move in, and she takes a couple of weeks to think about it. He buys a ring six months after that, and keeps it in his pocket while he waits for the right moment. But the right moment doesn’t seem to come. He keeps thinking it’s about to, and then an entirely different moment comes.

“It’s all the way across the world,” Tony says, tipping his martini back to take a drink.

“Well, yes,” Rumiko tells him, meeting his eye without shying away. It’s one of the things he loves about her. No simpering, timid girl, his Rumiko. “But it’s a wonderful opportunity. It’s the rest of my life.”

“It’s in _Japan_.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, I do have my own jet,” he shrugs.

“Tony,” she starts, her voice gentle.

“I do! Plus, I own the company. I can work remotely.”

“You really can’t,” she sighs. “Tony, it’s not going to work.”

“Other people do long-distance all the time.”

“And most of the time,” she tells him, leaning forward and intertwining their fingers, “they fail.”

“We wouldn’t. We _won’t_.”

Rumiko gazes at him, her dark eyes bright with tears.

“We don’t want the same things, Tony,” she says, and her voice doesn’t break.

“I want _you,”_ Tony says, and his does.

Rumiko leaves within the week.

 

+++++

 

After Rumiko, Tony decides it’s time to learn his lesson. He loved Steve. He fucked that up and then Steve died. He loved Ty, but Ty fucked everyone else and Tony kicked him out. He loved Rumiko, they had been _good_ together, but even that had still fallen apart – despite everything he’d tried to do right.

He decides that if it couldn’t work with her, he’s destined to be alone. His parents are gone, all he has left is the company and Jarvis. So he throws himself into his work, and he throws himself into spending the millions he makes on drinking, drugs and women, falling back into old patterns that numb the hollow ache.

Time marches on, and Tony turns off that part of him that had hoped for true love. That part of him was weak, and small, and he’s Tony fucking Stark, and he is made of iron. He’s one of the richest men in the world, he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in America, and he’s not going to sit at home pining.

He sets a goal to go 12 for 12 with the cover models of Maxim Magazine. He can’t seem to be in the same place at the same time as Ms. July, but December is twins so he calls it a win. Especially when he finally gets in touch with Ms. July – and meets her wife.

He uses his private jet to spend his weekends in Vegas, in Miami, in Maui. He doesn’t go to Ibiza again, much as he’d like to, because the last thing he wants to do is run into Ty. And, even though Ty is living in L.A. now, Tony’s pretty sure he’s more likely to run into him in Ibiza than in California.

He does whatever he can to not be in the same place alone with Jarvis, because he knows, down to his bones, that Jarvis is disappointed in him. Tony knows he’s a failure, knows he’s a mess, and he can’t bear to see what Jarvis’ face might look like when he sets eyes on Tony and realizes it, too.

He hires a smart, capable, and elegantly beautiful young woman as his personal assistant. Virginia – Pepper, and if he calls her ‘Virginia’ one more time she’ll feed him his silver Hugo Boss tie, see if she doesn’t  – Potts keeps him to his schedule, wrangles him when the weekend drinking gets out of hand, sobers him up for Monday meetings. She keeps an eye on his cocaine habit (god, he’s such a cliché) to make sure it doesn’t get to be more than a habit, and she glares disapprovingly at him whenever she suspects he might be a little high.

But she holds her tongue, and she makes sure to drape a blanket over him if she comes down to the workshop and finds him passed out on the sofa.

With Rhodey away on Air Force business all the time, he spends all his not-partying time with Pepper. Her, he can handle seeing him weak and drunk and high. She takes care of him, but she manages to do it in a way where he doesn’t feel coddled or pandered to. Maybe he falls a little bit in love with her, but he’s not going to go there. She’s too good a PA to fuck it up with a sexual harassment problem.

 

+++++

 

During one afternoon, when Tony is uncharacteristically sober – sober being a relative concept these days –  and working in the workshop instead of out partying, Jarvis comes down to bring him a pastrami sandwich and a small bag of potato chips. Tony rolls his eyes because Jarvis is a mother hen, but he accepts the sandwich and takes a big bite out of it anyway.

“Ms. Potts called this afternoon,” Jarvis says, moving over to the other side of Tony’s workbench and beginning to tidy it up. Tony ignores it – Jarvis isn’t messing with his organizational system too badly, so Tony decides if it makes Jarvis happy to move tools around then who is he to judge?

“She wished to inform you that the upgrades you had specified for the plane are complete, and it will be ready for your trip to Washington next week.”

“Great,” Tony says, distracted. He shovels another large mouthful of sandwich into his mouth and keeps tinkering with the small soldering iron in his hand.

“Is the sandwich to your liking?”

The question isn’t nearly as innocent as Jarvis makes it sound, which is pretty much par for the course.

“It’s great,” Tony says. “Thanks. I’m kind of in the middle of –”

“I wouldn’t want to overstep,” Jarvis says, interrupting him and overstepping like hell. Tony tenses. “But I do worry about you sometimes, Tony. When was the last time you had a decent, balanced meal?”

“I had a business lunch three days ago,” Tony argues, hands still tinkering with the connection relays he’s been working on. “There were vegetables and everything.”

“Wonderful, that should manage to hold off the scurvy for a few more days,” Jarvis says, voice dry. Tony feels only mildly scolded, but somehow amused at the same time.

“You know me, J, I always manage to come out on top.”

“Do you?”

The quiet, offhand comment feels like being doused in ice water.

“You’ve been displaying some rather unhealthy habits of late,” Jarvis tells him. Tony doesn’t look up, but he can see out of the corner of his eye that Jarvis is still tidying the workshop, not looking at Tony directly. Tony is completely certain that Jarvis is watching him anyway.

“I’m fine,” Tony tells him.

“You have always been a rather willful young man, and in many ways it has served you well. Your drive, your passion.” Jarvis tells him, and Tony feels his ears grow warm. Awesome. It sounds just like one of his dad’s dressing-downs, only a little more British. “But, from time to time, that quality is perhaps detrimental to one’s well being.”

 _You’re a stubborn, immature child,_ Howard would have said. Jarvis manages to find a nice way to word it, though.

“Perhaps it is not always easy to recognise that in one’s self.”

_You need to grow up._

Tony stares intently at the small circuit board in his hands.

“You’re no ordinary young man,” Jarvis tells him. “Most people are more interested in what you can do for them, rather than what they can do for you. Unfortunately, it can be difficult to navigate who in your life wants to be there for you, and who wants to be there because of who you are.”

Tony feels his cheeks flush. He _knows_ he’s mostly alone, he doesn’t need Jarvis to spell it out for him. He’d tried relationships, tried friendships, he really had – the truth is, most people wouldn’t interact with him for more than a night or two if he wasn’t paying him.

He hadn’t thought Jarvis was one of them, though.

Jarvis lets out a soft sigh. “You have a bright future ahead of you, Tony,” he says. “I know you didn’t have the most stable, healthy childhood, and I’m sorry for that. I did what I could to make sure you were cared for, but the truth is that some people simply aren’t meant to be parents. For some, there are more important things to focus on than raising a bright, innovative child. Business, science, high society. Your father did love you in his own way, Tony. He wasn’t very good at showing it, I know. And I know that’s had a profound effect on you.”

Tony keeps working at the circuitry in front of him, but at this point he’s not really even seeing it anymore. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He doesn’t want to talk about his parents, doesn’t want Jarvis to tell him about how his father had loved him. He’d never, ever said it himself – how would Jarvis know?

Jarvis keeps talking, though, apparently oblivious to Tony’s discomfort.

“Some days, I think Howard Stark only decided to father a child so that he might carry on the Stark legacy. He wanted to pass on his family name, his accomplishments.”

And Tony had simply been one more source of disappointment.

“It wasn’t a good reason to have a child,” Jarvis continues. “Children should be born because their parents want a child to raise, not someone to christen. And yet, I find that I am eternally grateful that he made the choice he did, regardless of his reasons before it, because the result was you – someone so extraordinary, someone who I care for a great deal. You have been making people’s lives better. Some of the technology Stark Industries has released in the past year has made the world an intensely better place. You should feel very accomplished.” Jarvis hesitates for a moment, and then adds softly, “I have only ever wanted for you to be happy.”

The praise makes Tony want to squirm, and he manages to hold still only because he knows Jarvis is only placating him.

Jarvis probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it – he’s never been a cruel or dishonest man. But the truth outs, as far as Tony sees it. Jarvis is just one more name on a long list of people he’s disappointed.

Jarvis stares at him briefly, then heads for the workshop door and goes upstairs. Tony immediately turns back to his work. This, at least, is something he won’t fuck up.

 

+++++

 

Tony doesn’t design weapons anymore. He had, for a couple of years after his parents died. After Steve died. Ty had encouraged him to do it, of course. The money was better, the fame. And it gave him something to publish in his newspapers. Stone Media was, as far as Tony knows, the conglomerate behind the first newspaper to call him the Merchant of Death. It was about three weeks after Tony had kicked Ty out and stopped returning his calls.

But Rumiko had given him hell about it. He’d told her about Steve – not all of it, no. But that he’d had a friend who died, a soldier, and she’d taken one look at his face as he’d told the story, fingers tinkering with a new missile propulsion system, and told him he could stop.

He’d blinked at her.

“You don’t have to design their weapons,” she’d said. “They don’t own you. You’re Tony Stark. This is Stark Industries. You can build whatever you want to change the world.”

And so he had. The stock had taken a hit, of course it had. Rumiko had left. He’d started drinking more, snorting more, sleeping less. Fucking more. But he’d stayed away from the ease of weapon design, and he’d gone into medical equipment. Faster, better, more accurate medical testing machines. The easy money in cell phones and tablets, too, though he could design them in his sleep. Had, actually, with the StarkPhone 3.

He’s even designed a few jets for military use. Nothing combative, though he suspects the military might be strapping weapons on the final product. Evacuation jets, made for medical emergencies and quick response teams. Jets with more manoeuvrability than a Sukhoi Su-35 and more speed than an X-15.

The kind of jets that might have, once upon a time a few years ago, saved a handsome blond soldier from Brooklyn.

His latest project is medical prosthetics. Robotic limbs, neural connections, nano-bot technology. The cutting edge of science and robotics, and he’s hovering on the blade of it.

Except he can’t quite make it over the last hurdle. Test after test, simulation after simulation. Jarvis worries about him, he knows, but Tony _also_ knows that if he can just get this to work, get it to function the way it’s supposed to, he’ll be able to rest. This will be the thing that changes the world. The thing that will make him worth something.

If he could just get it to fucking _work_.

He takes another long swig of his scotch, refills the glass. It’s only about four fingers’ worth.

 _Four spread fingers_ , he thinks, with a high-pitched giggle. His cheeks feel warm, his lips tingly, and he takes another drink.

He goes back to his holographic model, tries to focus on the design enough to pinch the corners and turn it to another view, but all the lines are doubled.

Maybe he’d had a bit too much to drink, after all.

“Don’t drink and design, Stark,” he mutters to himself. He clumsily opens his desk drawer, graceless hand digging through the random items in it – a granola bar, a couple of broken couplings, a fried circuit board, and – there! A little plastic baggie with a resealable opening. It’s about three quarters full of cocaine – and the good stuff, too. He’ll just take a little bump, enough to get his eyes to focus on the projection, and solve the problem.

So he does. Lifts a little of the powder up, takes a sniff, and blinks a few times. It’s amazing how quickly the glowing blue projection lines come back into focus, and before he knows it, Tony’s hands are whirling and flying over the hologram, flicking and twisting parts and pieces to try and get the right construction. He’s so close he can _taste_ it.  

He’s going to change the world. He’s _going_ to. His hands are a blur, manipulating the blueprints, rearranging the math. A few more taps and he’s done!

He starts the simulation and… it fucking fails.

 _Fuck_.

He takes the disappointment in stride. He’d been close, he knows it. Maybe the scotch is still hindering him? Dampening his efforts? Another bump of the coke would probably help him focus better. If he could just figure out where the connection is failing, which part of the math is wrong _(his math is never wrong, dammit)_ , he could get it to work. He could solve the problem, and that would be it. The thing he’s been working toward his whole life.

He could change everything.

So he does. He takes another sniff. Even as he feels it zinging into his bloodstream, even as he’s blinking his eyes, trying to get the intensely bright lights of the workshop to go down to bearable levels, he scoops another small bump out. Just a little – just enough to solve the problem, succeed with the simulation, and then he can go to bed. It’s the middle of the night, he’s been up for – God, has it really been 37 hours? – too long. One more bump to wake him up, and then he’ll get it done.

 

+++++

 

He wakes up in a hospital. It’s a _nice_ hospital. Clearly private, clearly discreet. It’s a large room, practically a suite. His throat is dry, sharp. His tongue feels like it might be three sizes too big. His eyes feel like sandpaper and his head feels like overfilled water balloon.

His hand itches. He glances down at it, and there’s an I.V. stuck into his vein, the skin around it dry-looking and discoloured, stained with, what, iodine? Iodine and the beginnings of purple and black bruising around the injection site.

He glances up, and Jarvis is sitting in a somewhat-uncomfortable looking armchair beside the window. His chin has dropped down to his chest, and his eyes are closed. Tony can hear a light, soft snoring that tells him Jarvis is asleep. The room isn’t completely dark, but it’s not terribly bright, either. One lamp is glowing across the room, bathing Jarvis in enough light to deepen the shadows of his features. It makes him look haggard and tired.

It makes him look _old_.

Tony swallows, his throat dry.

“There you are,” Pepper says quietly from beside him. He hadn’t looked to his left at all, didn’t know she was there. She catches him off guard, and he jumps a little. She gives him a watery smile, her cheeks pink and her eyes luminous in the low light.

“You gave us quite a scare, there, Tony.”

“Hey. Pep. Wha’s goin’ on?” Tony asks, his words coming out a scratchy, slurred rasp.

She reaches over and picks up a small plastic cup of water, using two fingers to steady the straw as she holds it up to his lips. He glares balefully at her for a moment because he is neither a child nor an invalid, but he leans forward and drinks from the cup.

“Jarvis found you on the workshop floor this morning,” she says, keeping her volume low. Her voice is not, however, nearly as gentle as her greeting had been.

“Did I pass out?”

“Technically, yes. Of course, it was caused by the overdose. From, you know, the _cocaine_.”

She sounds pissed.

He glances up at her, ready to shoot her his best puppy dog eyes, but he sees her face and he can’t.

Her voice is strong, if quiet. No wavering, no hesitation. But her cheeks are streaked with silent tears, her chin trembling as she speaks. “Dammit, Tony. That man loves you like a son, and he walked into that workshop to find you passed out on the floor, lucky you didn’t aspirate your own vomit. You were covered in blood, because your nose was bleeding and you’d managed to hit your hard goddamned head on the edge of the bench on your way down.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck is right,” she says, her tone nearly a snarl.

Tony blinks. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Pepper swear.

“Enough is enough, Tony,” she tells him. “You’ve been doing this to yourself too long. The drinking, the drugs… it has to stop. You can’t keep trying to kill yourself.”

“I’m not –”

“Yes you _are_ ,” she says. “Maybe you don’t even know you’re doing it, but you are. Tony. Tony, please, you have to stop.”

“I’m fine!” he says. He goes to cross his arms, but the I.V. tugs at his skin and he flinches. He glances down at it, to glare at it or tear it out or, he doesn’t know what, but he’s done with being in the goddamned hospital, that’s for sure.

Except his eyes land on Jarvis.

He’s awake now, staring at Tony. His eyes are red, his hair mussed. He looks like he’s aged 20 years in the space of 20 hours.

Jarvis swallows roughly, then gives Tony a tentative, gentle smile. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he says, his accent warm. “We were quite worried about you, you know.”

“Hey, J.”

“You know,” Jarvis says, his voice taking on a casual tone, “the doctors tell us you were actually clinically dead for approximately three minutes.”

Tony doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he _could_ say.

“Isn’t that astounding? And to think, all those projects, all those innovations you’re meant to create. They all would have gone up in smoke. Buried in your grave with you.”

Jarvis’ voice doesn’t turn hard, doesn’t change from the overtly casual tone. But Tony can hear the fear in it. The warning.

The pain.

Tony knows what it’s like to lose people he loves. God, does he know.

And he’d almost done that to Jarvis. To Rhodey. To Pepper.

The guilt is crushing. It’s almost too much – a heavy, overbearing weight on his chest. Pressing him down to the bed.

He glances at Pepper, then back to Jarvis, and in that moment he makes a decision.

He’ll go to rehab.


	5. All those shadows almost killed your light

Steve Rogers walks out of the hospital under his own power. The porter, with her sunny smile and lavender-coloured scrubs, tries to get him to sit in the wheelchair so she can push him down to the sidewalk, to Nat’s waiting car, but Steve would rather hobble out with his limp than be pushed. Bucky is on one side of him, sweatshirt sleeve pinned to his side where his left arm would be.

It hurts, putting his full weight on his leg, but the rehab therapist told him it would for a long time. “You may never get back full muscle here,” she’d said, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact.

They’d had to cut most of it out. The _rectus femoris_ and the _vastus lateralis_. The infection had been too deep, and the necrotic tissue had to be sliced away. The skin had healed over now, so Steve is left with a twisted, puckered crater in his thigh, where thick muscle used to lay.

It’s not the worst of his scars. Just the one that nearly killed him.

Steve finds it funny that, in the firefight, in the ambush, he hadn’t been that injured. A hard knock to the head had rendered him unconscious, and he’d woken up tied to an uncomfortable metal chair, naked and cold and dark.

He doesn’t like to think about the next couple of years of his life. About what they did to him, how they tortured him and beat him and –

There’d been a wound, on his thigh. He can’t remember what had made it – it could have been from a jagged rock as they’d dragged him back to his cell after his captors had become fed up with his refusal to answer their questions about US military procedures and tied him to a wooden post in the interrogation room, and set upon him with a heavy whip. They’d given him 30 lashes for insolence, and by the end of it his back had felt like fire, blood seeping down over his body.

All he knows is that by then he’d been in a constant state of malnourishment, dehydration, and, he found out later from the doctors, suffering from scurvy. His skin had been thin, his immune system had been compromised, and the wound on his thigh had festered. The infection had spread slowly, but deeply. He’d been sure he would die, then. He’d even longed for it, some days.

One of the doctors, shortly after his rescue, when they were trying to fight the infection, had said that he had been lucky his captors had poured salted water over his back after the whipping, as it had flushed the wounds and probably prevented further infection.

Steve, with the ugly scars on his back that now will never fully heal, marred and broken and disfigured, hadn’t considered the searing pain of salt in his wounds ‘luck’.

He didn’t want to die there. God, no, he wanted – he wanted to go home. That’s all he wanted. Not even home. Boston. An opulent penthouse apartment overlooking Beacon Hill. A king-sized bed with soft sheets and a devilish young man with a smirk and a wicked tongue. Sweet brown eyes and a smile that could light up the entire eastern seaboard.

Tony. He’d wanted to go home to Tony.

But instead, he’d been stuck in a damp, dirty dungeon, refusing to answer questions about the military, about the U.S., about western culture as a whole.

His single biggest regret, he’d thought as he was sweating with fever and shivering with pain on the floor, was not telling Tony how he’d felt. Letting Tony believe that Steve had been happy with their casual arrangement, that he didn’t want more.

God, Steve had wanted more. _Still_ wanted more. But he was dying on the floor of some terrible prison in the desert, and he’d never see Tony’s easy smirk again.  

But he’s not there anymore. He’s home. He’s home, and he’s broken, and he’s been in that hospital for months trying to heal his body and his mind. Bucky is beside him, miraculously alive, and he’s walking, albeit unevenly, under his own power.

He slides into the car, happy to get the weight off his leg. Bucky slams the car door shut and climbs into the front seat beside Nat. He struggles a little with his seatbelt, just because the angle is awkward with only his right arm, and then they start pulling away from the hospital.

Bucky probably should have died, that day out in the sand, but he’d been saved from bleeding out by the explosion that had, somehow, cauterized his wound enough that he’d still been alive when help had come. Too late to save Steve and three other members of their unit, who had already been taken. Bucky’s left side is now a sea of burn scars and rough skin, but he’s alive.

“Do we need to stop anywhere, Stevie?” Bucky asks, turning his chin toward the back seat. “Pharmacy, or anything?”

“Not today,” Steve says. All he wants is to get home. Not that he’s ever actually been there, before. Bucky’s been living in Brooklyn since he got back from overseas, and Steve’s going to move in with him. Bucky and Nat are apparently on an ‘off-again’ phase, though Steve thinks they might be heading toward on-again if Nat brought Bucky to pick him up from the hospital.

It’s less of a hospital than a rehab centre, but the principle is the same. Steve had been there for recovery, until the doctors and therapists couldn’t help him recover anymore.

He knows he’s probably always going to limp, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t improve past this.

He glances at the cane Nat and Bucky brought with them, propped up against the other door in the back seat. He wants to glare at it, toss it out the window, but they’re just trying to help. And, honestly, Steve lost a chunk of muscle from his thigh and ended up with a few ugly scars. Bucky lost an arm. Steve has no right to be upset about Bucky trying to help him, trying to offer him assistance. If Steve hadn’t been so stupid to lead them into an ambush because he’d been upset about Tony’s latest email, Bucky would still have his arm, and Steve wouldn’t have spent two years, 3 months and 17 days in a hole in the ground.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm the rising storm of anger in him. His counsellor had told him not to dwell on the past. That he couldn’t keep blaming himself for the attack – they’d all been victims. Steve still feels responsible, of course, but he’s trying to stop. Some days, he’s more successful than others.

“Do you want to pick up anything to eat?” Natasha asks from the driver’s seat, expertly maneuvering the car through traffic so they can just beat the amber light and get through the next intersection without having to stop and be dragged down in New York gridlock.

Her voice is gentle, soft. She doesn’t glance at him, not even in the rear view mirror – just keeps her eyes on the road and drives on calmly. Steve’s not sure how she does such a good job of reading him – they hadn’t known each other very long before Steve had shipped out. And she’s only been visiting him at the rehab centre for the last few months, usually with Bucky. Nonetheless, she seems to have figured out without looking at him when he might be verging on the edge of an anxiety attack, the kind where he wants to put his fist through a wall and knock someone’s head off, and she seems to be exceptionally good at easing him away from that line without him knowing she’s doing it.

“Hey, good idea,” Bucky says, grinning and turning enough to meet his eyes. “We can stop and get street tacos. When’s the last time you had street tacos, Stevie?”

Steve gives him a one-sided smirk. “Yeah, Buck. I could eat a taco.”

“Fuck that, you’re gonna eat a dozen,” Bucky says, giving him a wink. His hair has grown out, so long it curls around the line of his jaw. Even months later, Steve’s thrown off by it. He’d been so used to Bucky’s hair at regulation length, but if he has to guess, he’d say Bucky hasn’t had a haircut since he got back stateside.

Steve chuckles lightly. “All right,” he agrees amiably. The anger has subsided, he feels better. They get a little further away from the rehab centre before Natasha pulls the car over at a little taco stand along the road. Steve’s shocked she finds a parking spot so close, but he decides not to question it because he really, really wants fish tacos.

A sudden flash of memory makes the bottom drop out from his stomach. Him and Tony, standing in line for Chipotle Avo-COD-o Fish Tacos at that little truck in Boston.

They’d been good. But they’d paled in comparison to the company.

But Steve won’t let himself lose one of the few pleasures in his life – fish tacos – to the loss of Tony.

Bucky knows. That Steve had fallen in love, that Steve had wanted more than anything to get home to be back in Tony’s arms. They’d talked about it in the desert, talked about it in the hospital and the rehab centre.

‘Why don’t you just email him? See how he is? See if you can start something up again.’

Steve had smirked. As though he hadn’t tried that. The first thing he’d done when he’d gotten access to a computer had been to log into his email and reply to the last one Tony had sent, telling Steve to enjoy his life.

It had bounced back the next day, along with a message saying that email address no longer existed.

So Steve doesn’t have an email address for him, doesn’t have his phone number, nothing. He’d tried to track down James Rhodes, but there was too much bureaucracy, and apparently Rhodes was working on some classified projects these days. Classified enough that Steve couldn’t get anyone to tell him how he could reach the man.

And then, when Steve was feeling better, feeling stronger and able to get up out of bed on his own, he’d realized that it would be completely unfair. It would be _wrong_ , even, to try and contact Tony out of the blue like this. Tony had always deserved joy, love, an amazing life. What could he possibly want with a disfigured, broken veteran with PTSD?

No, Steve couldn’t do that to him. Tony is kind enough that he would humour Steve, say hello and ask how he’s doing, but then he’d move on to someone more worthy of him, and how could Steve blame him?

Besides, Rhodes had said at that dinner a lifetime ago that Tony would never commit, and Steve learned his lesson the last time – he needs that commitment in a relationship. He can’t have one without the other.

“Stevie?” Bucky asks, yanking Steve out of his thoughts. He glances up at the board beside the order window, realizing Bucky has been asking him what he’d like to order.

“Fish tacos,” Steve says, blinking away the memories. “With guacamole, please.”

“You should try the chorizo bites,” Natasha says, pointing one glossy red fingernail at the board.

“You’ve been here before?”

“It’s between the Centre and the apartment,” Bucky shrugs. “And they _do_ have great chorizo bites.”

Steve smiles a little. “Okay, then. I’ll also have the chorizo bites.”

The man punching things into the register gives him the total. It seems high, and Steve realizes he doesn’t actually have any money in his wallet. He hasn’t needed money, he’s been stuck in the rehab centre for months, and before that, the hospital.

 _And before that, a hole in the ground_.

But Nat hands over a wad of cash, and Steve realizes all their orders are being done together. He feels stupid, like he doesn’t know how to live in the world anymore. His counsellor had warned him about this, said he’d feel out of place and confused, and to just let it slide over him. Even if he did something unexpected or unusual, he was going to be living in New York. Who would notice?

They wait off to the side, and then the food truck operator holds a brown paper bag out the little window, and Natasha reaches up and takes it from him. They head for the car so they can head for Bucky’s place and this time, Bucky lets Steve open and close his own door. Steve feels more grateful for that than he probably should.

 

+++++

 

Steve does well at Bucky’s house for about three weeks before he gives in to temptation and googles Tony Stark.

It’s pages and pages and pages of information. Steve soaks it in.

God, Tony’s gorgeous. He’s gotten slightly broader in the last couple of years, like he’s managed to fill in his shoulders a little. Just looking at photos of him gives Steve a little thrill.

Once Steve starts reading, though, that thrill becomes a lead weight in his chest. Tony’s parents had died in a car accident, just after Steve had been captured, really. He’d had to take over the company at 19.

There are photos of him out at parties, a drink in his hand and his eyes too bright, various people around him, draped over him. He’s surrounded by beautiful people.

The articles accompanying the photos aren’t terribly flattering. ‘Playboy’ is thrown around a little more than Steve would like. According to the entertainment news websites, Tony dates a new model every week, spends most of his evenings at parties.

One more thing Steve knows he’d ruin for Tony; he would surely just drag Tony down. He can’t do crowds, not yet (not that he can do solitude particularly well, either), and so if he contacts Tony, and Tony agrees to see him, Steve couldn’t offer him all this.

Tony has a smile on his face in every picture. Steve couldn’t give him that, he knows. It’s a different smile than Steve had been used to seeing on Tony’s face before he’d gone to war, but Steve doesn’t think _he_ smiles the same way now as he did then, either.

Tony’s better off without him, and this is just more proof.

 

+++++

 

He starts looking for a job. He doesn’t know where to start. Bucky works part time as a clerk at the VA, mostly answering phones and directing clients to the correct areas. But they don’t need anyone else.

But Steve still walks with a limp, so he can’t do anything where he’s on his feet for any length of time. He can’t sleep with the lights out, either. The second he closes his eyes in a dark room, he can hear the sounds of the dungeon where he was held hostage. There was almost never light in there, unless their captors were trying to deprive them of sleep by flashing bright lights at random intervals. Or if they took you to the interrogation room.

Steve tries very hard not to think about the interrogation room.

He doesn’t think he can work customer service. The idea of having to help customer after customer makes his palms sweat.

He keeps looking, and nothing seems like the right fit. Bucky tells him not to sweat it, but Steve can’t help but feel like he isn’t pulling his weight. Bucky says his disability pay is enough for rent and the basics, and the addition of Steve’s disability pay means they’re actually doing fairly well financially. Still. Steve needs a reason to get out of bed in the mornings – that’s what his counsellors told him.

So, he decides, if he can’t find a job, maybe his reason for getting out of bed in the mornings will be to get out of bed in the mornings. He starts going for morning walks. He can’t go far, not on his leg, but he gets up every morning and goes for a walk. Every week, he finds himself improving – he can go a little farther, and then a little farther after that.

He’s an outpatient at the rehab clinic in the VA, so he starts going weekly to work on strengthening is leg. A pretty young woman named Sharon pushes him and pushes him, and gives him a sweet smile whenever he pushes a little farther, works a little harder. They end every session with him holding a heating pad to the muscle, her giving him exercises to do at home.

He starts going to group therapy at the VA, too. It’s led by a jovial, cheerful former pararescue named Sam. The first time Steve sits in on the group, a young woman talks about a plastic bag she’d seen blowing in the wind, how she’d thought it was an I.E.D., how she’d panicked.

Steve thinks about the night before, when he’d had to sleep on the floor beside his bed because he’d spent two years sleeping on a stone floor and a fucking Sealy Posturepedic was going to be the end of him. He thinks about how, last week, he’d gotten up at three in the morning to fix a leaky faucet in the bathroom because the faint sound of water dripping into the tub had him trembling and shaking and on the verge of hysteria.

Sam tells her, his voice calm, “Some stuff you leave there, some stuff you bring back,” and it resonates with Steve. He stares, dumb-founded, after everyone else has gotten up and taken a cup of horrifying coffee. Eventually, Sam turns back to him.

“Hey, man. You just get back?”

Steve blinks up at him. “Not exactly,” he says with a shrug. “Just got out of medical.”

“Well, nice to have you. We all got the same problems,” Sam tells him. “Guilt, regret. You come here, you feel like maybe you’re not the only one feeling the way you do.”

“I appreciate that.”

And Steve means it, he finds. So he goes back to the group a couple of times a week, until he knows everyone by name. Sam, of course, but also Chelsea and Roderick and Barrett, Mike and Jim and Dorothy in her wheelchair. More often than not, Steve stays after the session, and he and Sam chat.

It’s nice. It makes him feel normal. Makes him feel like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel where he won’t feel so bad, where his leg won’t hurt so much, where he can sleep with the lights off.

Steve makes a point of not looking up Tony on the internet again. He already doesn’t really read newspapers or watch television, but if he gives in to the temptation of googling Tony regularly, he won’t be able to stop.

That part of his life, the part where he could entertain the dream of living the rest of his life with Tony, is over. It died in that cave in the desert.

Sure, the thought of Tony had been what had given him the strength to hold on while in captivity, but that was all Tony could be for him. And Steve knows he’ll be fine with that, in time.

 

+++++

 

Sam’s the one who finally suggests a job Steve feels comfortable with. He still has a hard time with crowds, still has a hard time if he’s around people for too long – even people he likes, like Bucky or Sam. Sam finds him sitting out in the park across from the VA one day, sketchbook on his lap. He’s sketching out an older couple across the grass. The man is obviously a vet. His wife is holding his arm in a way that, to the casual observer, looks like they’re just out for an affectionate Sunday stroll. But Steve can see the way her knuckles are white, the way the man is leaning into her – she’s holding his arm because she’s helping to hold him up.

Sam looks over his shoulder at the sketch.

“Hey, man, that’s pretty good.”

“Oh. It’s just – just a way to pass the time,” Steve says, a little bit of pink rising into his cheeks.

“You ever go to art school?”

“No. I was… I was going to. Before I got shipped out, that was the plan. Come back home and go to art school.”

“How come you don’t go now?”

Steve looks back at the older couple, at the way the woman is smiling at her husband as if he’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky just for her.

“I think that ship has sailed,” Steve tells him, his voice quiet.

Sam snorts, an undignified expression on his face. “Says who?”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t really have energy to waste on pipe dreams these days,” he says. “I need to find work, and I need to do my PT, and I need to get back in the world. Art has to go to the backburner.”

“So then why are you sitting out here, sketching folks in the park?”

One corner of Steve’s mouth hitches up in a wry smile. “Because I’m having a hard time finding work and getting back into the world, and my PT appointment isn’t for another half hour.”

“Who says you have to choose between work, the world and art?”

Steve glances up at him. “Bank account, for starters.”

Sam rolls his eyes, and gives Steve a handful of various pamphlets. They’re for various programs at the VA, including group therapy, skills classes, subsidy applications – and they’re all terrible. Steve may not have gone to art school, but the pamphlets look like something a child put together with a copy of Microsoft Word.

The skills classes pamphlet is on top. “Is there an art class here at the centre?” Steve asks, holding it up so Sam can see it.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but that’s not what I meant. What we need is a designer to redo those pamphlets. Hell, we need more than just these pamphlets – we need posters and brochures and all kinds of things. It’s part time work, but you can do it at home.”

“I’m not a graphic designer,” Steve says. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well,” Sam says with a grin, “if you open up that there skills classes pamphlet, you might find a skills class that’ll help you out with that.”

Steve flips open the front cover, and there it is. _Photoshop & Illustrator - Beginner’s session_.

It’s not really fine art, but it _is_ artistic. And it’s part time, work he can do at his own speed – so if he’s having a rough day, struggling to get out of bed, he doesn’t have to worry about losing his job.

And it’s something to get out of bed _for_.

Steve signs up for the class.  

 

+++++

 

The class takes about six months, and by the end of it he has enough of a grasp of the programs, as well as his own artistic eye, to redesign the centre’s pamphlets. That leads to Sam connecting him with a small company that provides other services to veterans, who contract him for various design projects as well. Before long, he’s working around 20 hours a week doing various small design projects.

It’s enough to make him feel like he’s making headway on getting back into the world, but not so much that he doesn’t have time to work on his PT, or go to group sessions. He still needs to keep the light on at night, but he doesn’t wake up with nearly as many nightmares. He also signs up for the art class, but after the first couple of sessions the instructor asks him if he’d like to assist in teaching the class, since his skills are more advanced than the curriculum, and Steve panics and can’t go back.

He keeps going to therapy, keeps going to group.

Bucky and Nat break up seven times over the next five years. They’re on their tenth go of a relationship (although Bucky swears it’s only number nine) and Natasha is over at their apartment. They’re watching a movie, some ridiculous comedy. Nat’s not really watching it, she has a magazine in her lap, and her feet are stretched out over Bucky’s lap. Her feet are bare, her toes painted a glossy teal colour. Bucky’s hand is wrapped around her foot, his thumb rubbing softly back and forth.

Steve thinks he probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and it kills him that they can’t seem to commit to one another. He wonders how much of it is Bucky’s own issues after the war. He wonders if, maybe, this is the time they’ll be able to stick it out.

Steve laughs a little at one of the ridiculous jokes on the screen, and he feels light at the sound of Bucky’s tandem laughter. There was a time, a few years ago, when Steve had thought he wouldn’t be able to watch a movie and enjoy it. There was always something that would set him off, slam a memory of his time in captivity into his consciousness. Or, the movie would be too long, and his mind would wander – inevitably to that dark dungeon, to the interrogation room, to the things his captors had subjected him to in the name of ‘questioning’ him.

But he feels good. He still goes to group, of course, but he hasn’t needed his personal therapist for a couple of years. He’s done his physio, and though his leg will never be back to normal, he’s managed to build the muscle enough that he can run five or six miles before the pain sets in. He can talk to people, he can go out to a restaurant without needing to hide under the table.

He still needs the light on when he’s sleeping, but more often than not he sleeps through the night. Middle-of-the-night insomnia is a rarity, not a routine.

“Hm,” Nat says, her voice thoughtful. It breaks into Steve’s thoughts, and Steve and Bucky both take their eyes off the television screen and glance at her questioningly.

She holds the magazine up, just a little. Not enough that Steve can see the page she’s reading, or the cover, just enough to indicate that whatever had caused her to make the mildly interested sound could be find on that glossy paper.

“You met Tony Stark once, didn’t you?” she asks, arching an eyebrow in Steve’s direction.

Steve feels lightheaded. Tony Stark. _Tony_. He thinks of Tony every day, but he hadn’t heard his name in… he doesn’t know how long. Years, definitely. And Nat _knows_ Steve did more than ‘meet’ him. She has to. Bucky would have told her that they’d been together for a week, wouldn’t he?

“Apparently he’s out of rehab, now,” she says, not missing a beat. Steve blinks at her in shock. Rehab? Had he been hurt? Had there been an accident? Was he okay? Why would Tony be in –

“Clean and sober, good for him,” she says idly. Steve wants to tear the magazine out of her hands and pore over the pages, consume every written word about Tony, learn everything there is to know.

Oh, Tony. Steve is filled with sudden sadness, that Tony had needed to go to rehab to get sober. He’d seemed so level-headed, so confident. How could he have developed a drinking problem.

“Why would he – why was he in rehab?” Steve asks, ignoring how his voice comes out in a croak.

Natasha, bless her, ignores it as well. “You didn’t know? Cocaine overdose a few months ago. It was in all the gossip rags.”

Steve wants to sink to the floor and cry. He wants to rage that Tony would put that garbage in his body, that he would hurt himself that way. He wants to gather Tony in his arms and protect him from harm.

He can do none of those things. “I never pegged you for one to read the gossip rags,” he says instead.

Natasha does hold the magazine up, then, so Steve can see the cover. ‘Popular Science’. And there’s Tony on the cover, eyes bright and smiling, a playful smirk on his face. He looks older than he should, and he’s grown some impeccably geometric goatee, but it’s unmistakably Tony, and it makes Steve’s heart throb with want.

 _Tony Stark: Out of Rehab and Into Robotics_ , the title says, heavy font in a glaring red.

Bucky glances at Steve worriedly, but Steve refuses to show how shaken he is.

“What’s he, uh, what’s he doing in the magazine?”

Natasha’s mouth takes on an attractive pout as she makes a show of skimming over the article again. “They did a profile on him because he’s apparently making breakthroughs in medical science.”

Steve, despite himself, feels a rush of pride.

“Robotic limb prosthetics,” she says, glancing at Bucky, and suddenly Steve realizes her show of nonchalance isn’t just for his benefit.

Bucky has had a prosthetic arm for the last four years. At first he had avoided it, but he’d broken down and gotten one a few months after Steve had started doing his graphic design work. It wasn’t much – an L-shaped fiberglass arm with a curved hand shape at the end.

Mostly, he only wears it out of the house, if for no other reason than to avoid being stared at. At home, he leaves it on his dresser. He hates it.

“That so?” Bucky asks, trying to sound disinterested.

“Apparently there’s a lot of nanotechnology, some neural implants … it’s all a little too complicated for me,” she says with a self-deprecating shrug. Steve recognizes it as false immediately – there’s somehow nothing Nat doesn’t know all about. “Full range of motion, pressure sensitivity, stimulus response. Looks pretty high-tech.”

“Range of motion?” Steve asks, perking up and stealing a glance at Bucky who isn’t doing a very good job of making himself seem uninterested anymore.

“Working joints. Fingers, toes, knees, you name it. The article says they’re about to start a test program, with human volunteers to try them out.”

“No kiddin?” Bucky says, finally letting the facade drop and letting his enthusiasm show.

“Yeah. They’re opening up an application process,” Natasha says. “What do you think, James? Should we see if we can get you in?”

Bucky looks uncomfortable for a moment, and Steve realizes he needs to cut it off at the pass, despite the way his heart is still pounding at the thought of Tony, of the realization that Tony is still out there somewhere, still living his life.

“Come on, Buck. I think you should try,” Steve says. “Can you imagine? Full range of motion.”

Bucky glances back and forth between the two of them with a scowl. “For the record, I don’t like being ganged up on,” he says with a sigh, but he nods his assent, and Natasha and Steve share a triumphant smile.

And Nat, ever considerate, doesn’t make mention of the fact that Steve’s smile might be a little bit wobbly.

 

+++++

 

Bucky does qualify for the test program. Steve goes with him to the initial appointment – he and Nat are ‘off-again’ by the time it rolls around – with butterflies in his stomach. They walk into Stark Tower in Manhattan to meet with a team of doctors and technicians, who will run tests on Bucky, different nerve connections and brain mapping.

Of course, Tony isn’t there. Steve feels stupid for even entertaining the idea that Tony might be there, might run the tests and fit Bucky for the prosthetic himself – Natasha had left that Popular Science magazine on their coffee table and Steve had read every word of it multiple times. He knows Tony lives in Malibu, the article made several mentions of his personal workshop in his Malibu home. But still.

He’d hoped.

It only takes a few weeks for the technicians at Stark Bionics to call Bucky back, and he goes in for his final fitting of the prosthetic arm. Natasha comes with them this time, because they’re ‘on-again’ and Steve is going to stop trying to keep track anymore.

Of course, shortly after he decides that, Natasha moves in with them. It’s the first time Bucky and Nat have tried living together, and honestly Steve thinks it’s better for them. They stop fighting, and Natasha never complains about how the lights in the hallway, the bathroom, and Steve’s bedroom, all stay on through the night.

Bucky has the arm and it really is everything Stark Bionics had promised – full articulation of the finger joints, complete range of motion, and it’s all controlled by neural implants they’d put in Bucky’s shoulder. The muscles that would attempt to fire and move when Bucky wanted to move the missing arm set off the neural sensor, and the sensor signals the arm to move. There’s no lag. It’s magnificent.

Bucky refuses the offer by the technicians to fit him with a flesh-coloured neoprene sleeve to make the arm look more ‘natural’.

Steve agrees with him – the shiny metal plates of the arm are beautiful, well crafted, and intricate. To Steve, it makes the arm look one of a kind, interesting, and brave.

Much like Steve considers Bucky, himself.

Instead of the neoprene sleeve, Bucky paints a red star on the bicep and goes out of his way to wear short sleeves so the arm is visible. It’s a far cry from Bucky of a year ago, who would go out of his way to ensure he went unnoticed everywhere he went.

Steve thinks to himself that, once again, Tony Stark has changed his life for the better. This time, though, he wonders if maybe he’d done Tony a disservice by not making more of an effort to look him up after he’d gotten back home. At least then he could make a point to thank Tony for his work in prosthetics, for giving Bucky this gift.

But he’s missed his chance, and he can only hope that Tony knows, somehow, how many lives he’s changed. Even if he can’t know specifically whose.

 

+++++

 

Steve goes for a run every morning. He’s up to ten miles now without having to stop because of his leg. There’s still a silvery scar and a dimple in the muscle, but he walks without a limp unless the air is damp and cold.

The run feels good. The adrenaline and burning of his lungs quiets his mind, gives him a chance to stop the constant churning of thoughts in his head. He can simply run and feel free, out in the open and not surrounded by walls. It’s literally the farthest he can get from that dank dungeon in Iraq, and he hardly ever misses a run.

He’s got his headphones on, listening to some heavily distorted music to help him keep pace, and glancing ahead at the next intersection to try and judge if he’ll need to stop or if he’ll be able to cross. It’s early, barely seven o’clock, so the sidewalk isn’t too crowded, and Steve can run without having to dodge pedestrians all over the place.

So he’s watching that intersection and timing the walk-symbol countdown with his strides, and it prevents him from noticing the glass door opening directly in front of him until it’s almost too late. He tries to veer to the left and avoid the dark-haired man coming out of the Starbucks with a large cup in his hand, but he’s not quite fast enough and his shoulder knocks into the other man’s shoulder. The man makes an ‘oof’ sound, and Steve’s momentum carries him in a spin, so it takes him a moment to turn around and make sure the guy’s okay.

“Oh, man, are you okay? I didn’t –”

The apology dies on Steve’s lips, because the man he’d run into, the man holding a venti coffee cup in his hand and staring at Steve like he’s seeing a ghost, is the most beautiful, wonderful, attractive man Steve’s ever seen.

It’s _Tony_.

Even if Steve hadn’t seen him on the cover of Popular Science, the goatee wouldn’t have been enough to throw Steve, to make Tony unrecognizable. His brown eyes, his long eyelashes, he way his smooth cheekbones curve into the sharp corner of his jaw – Steve could never not recognize him.

Tony stares at him for a full four seconds before the coffee cup drops out of his hand, hot black coffee spraying in an arc on the sidewalk as the cup rolls harmlessly away. Tony’s face is pale, his mouth frozen open, and he’s not moving. He’s barely even breathing.

“You’re dead,” Tony says, his voice strained and hoarse. “Oh, god, I’m finally having a breakdown.”

“Tony,” Steve breathes, finding his voice. He lurches forward, hand outstretched as though to touch Tony, to feel that he’s really real, but Tony flinches slightly, eyes going impossibly wider, so Steve lets his hand drop. He doesn’t step back, though – he’d never thought he’d be in this close proximity to Tony again.

“A complete break with reality. I feel like my therapist should have warned me this could happen. I’m sober now, I’m not supposed to hallucinate.”

“Tony,” Steve says, gentle fondness breaking through his shock enough that he gives Tony a soft smile. “It’s me.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not you, because you’re _dead_.”

“I’m not dead,” Steve argues.

Tony glares. “Really? Because the United States government put out a press release _seven years ago_ saying you’d been killed in action.”

And Steve suddenly realizes. He remembers Bucky saying something, once, that everyone that hadn’t been recovered after the bombing had been declared dead, because they hadn’t received any ransom demands from the terrorist organization that had captured their people.

Tony must have seen the news. He’d really thought Steve had been dead all these years. Steve feels shock, guilt, pity … and then, he pushes it all aside to take a small step closer to Tony so that they’re almost breathing the same air.

“It was wrong. I was missing. I was – I was captured. But I’m home, Tony. I’m okay.”

“I thought…” Tony trails off. “I – you didn’t – you didn’t contact me.”

“I tried,” Steve says. “I emailed you, but it bounced back. I couldn’t – I didn’t think it mattered, though.”

Tony looks stricken at that, horror written on his face. “It didn’t _matter_?”

Steve takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the way his whole body is starting to itch, the way his lungs are starting to feel tighter, like he might be on the verge of a panic attack. He hasn’t had one in years.

“It had been a long time,” he says, trying to stay calm. He recognizes that Tony’s had a bit of a shock, he doesn’t want to lash out. “And you’re – you’re Tony Stark. I didn’t think you’d want to hear from some nobody like me.”

“You’re not nobody,” Tony says fiercely. “You’ll never be nobody.”

“Tony…” Steve starts, but Tony cuts him off with a glance at his watch.

“Look, I’ve got – I’ve got a meeting. I’m late. That’s why – I’m never in Brooklyn, I don’t know why I – can I. Can I call you? Can we, I don’t know, get a coffee later or something? I just – I need some time, because I really, really thought you were dead and now you’re here, standing on a sidewalk outside a Starbucks in Brooklyn, and I don’t even give a fuck that I dropped my coffee because you’re _not dead_ , but I can’t deal with it right now. Can we – just, can I call you?”

“Yes,” Steve says immediately. “Please.”

“Great,” Tony says, backing away, not taking his eyes off Steve as he heads down the sidewalk – the opposite direction of the intersection Steve had been looking toward when he’d crashed into him. “I’ll do that. Call you, I mean. Later. After my meeting.”

He finally turns around and takes off at a brisk pace – but he stops two steps in, wheeling around with a grimace.

“Fuck,” he says, walking back toward Steve. Steve thinks he’s going to touch him, hug him, maybe even kiss him, and he’s not ready for that but god he wants it, but then Tony is speaking again. “I need your number.”

Steve blinks stupidly at him.

“I can’t call you if I don’t have your number,” Tony says, pulling out his cell phone. It’s – obviously – the latest Stark Phone model, and he taps the touch screen a couple of times. “Number,” he says to Steve, the word a prompt, an invitation and a demand all at once.

Steve shakes his head and rattles off his number, and Tony taps it into his phone before sliding the device back into his pocket. He looks at Steve for another moment, just searching his eyes, before he turns and heads back down the sidewalk, leaving Steve standing alone in front of the Starbucks, sweaty hair flopped in his face, thigh aching with tension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter: [Sleep with the light on](https://i.imgur.com/d7HHnLj.png) by deruzard.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Art for this chapter: [Bucky](https://i.imgur.com/hEt0acq.png) by deruzard.
> 
>  


	6. Head over feet

Tony absolutely does not attend his meeting in Brooklyn. He gets into a Taxi around the corner and has it take him back to Manhattan. From the back seat, he calls Pepper and tells her to cancel the appointment.

“Cancel it? Tony, you’re already ten minutes late for it,” she says, exasperation in her voice.

“I’m not late, I can’t be late for something I’m not going to,” Tony argues.

“We’ve been trying to get this meeting for _months_ ,” she snaps.

“Steve Rogers is alive,” he says, and his voice only shakes a little as he says it.

“Who?”

“Steve Rogers. The soldier I met when I was at MIT.”

“The one who died in Iraq?” She sounds confused, like maybe Tony had suddenly started speaking Italian, except that Pepper _speaks_ Italian so if he _had_ started speaking Italian she’d be able to understand him.

“Except he didn’t die in Iraq.” His hand trembles a little as he rubs at his forehead, feeling the sharp pain of a tension headache blooming. The cab driver, used to all kinds, ignores him entirely, muttering about traffic. “I just ran into him on the sidewalk in front of a Starbucks – literally ran into him – and he’s alive. He’s completely alive, and here, and going for a nice leisurely run in Brooklyn and he’s just as gorgeous as he was then and I’m not going to any fucking meeting.” By the last, Tony knows he’s starting to sound hysterical, on the verge of panic.

“Steve Rogers is alive?” she asks.

Tony lets out a huff of breath, but suddenly he hears Pepper protesting from far away and then Rhodey’s on the line.

“Tony?” he says, his voice annoyed. “Tony, are you okay? Did you take something?”

Tony rolls his eyes. He should be offended, he knows, but he can’t be bothered right now, because if Rhodey had called him and told him Steve Rogers hadn’t died in Iraq, chances are Tony would have assumed he was high as a kite, too.

“No, Rhodey,” he promises. “I’m sober. I’m woefully under caffeinated, but I’m sober. What, exactly, are you doing with Pepper at, oh, god, what is it, six in the morning in Malibu? You know what, nevermind, I don’t want to know. I’m serious. Steve Rogers is alive. He wasn’t killed in action, he was missing, and I never … I never knew.”

“Look, Tony, I know he meant a lot to you, but he’s gone. Maybe you saw someone that looked like him, but –”

“No, no, Rhodey, I mean it. He’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s amazing,” Tony sighs. “And I – shit, I have his number.” Tony feels laughter bubble up in his chest, and he pushes it down because he knows if he lets it out, it will get hysterical and panicky, and he doesn’t have time for a breakdown in a cab to Manhattan.

“Wait, you actually _talked_ to him? Tony –”

“Yeah, I talked to him,” Tony says. Rhodey makes a noise of protest. “Rhodey,” Tony says, stopping him again. “It’s really him. It really is Steve, and he’s alive.”

“Holy shit,” Rhodey says, his voice full of breathless awe. “Steve Rogers is alive.”

“And living in Brooklyn,” Tony adds, letting a little bit of a smile peek into his expression.

 

+++++

 

By afternoon, however, Tony is a mess again. The initial shock and giddiness at finding out Steve is alive, after all this time, has faded into the cold dread of knowing that Tony can’t _have_ him. Not only was their ‘relationship’ nothing more than a fling years ago, but now Tony’s had the time to realize that he’s destined to remain single.

It’s not some ridiculous ‘the universe is out to get me’ mentality, even Tony knows he’s not that important to the universe. Some people just don’t get to have love – whether because they don’t deserve it, or because they’re not really that lovable, or because they have to do penance for some horrible thing they did. And some people just don’t get to have love because the world is terribly unfair.

Tony knows he probably falls into all of the first three categories. He’s spent years being the prize at the end of the race for socialites and celebutantes, so he knows he’s an attractive young bachelor – a real ‘catch’. The problem is, anyone who’s been given the time to get to know him? Anyone that’s really seen the ‘Tony’ behind the ‘Stark’?

They’ve all chosen to steer clear.

And, sure, maybe Steve hadn’t left him, all those years ago, hadn’t actually died and taken Tony’s chance of love with him, but he’d been back stateside for… well, a while. He can’t have been in captivity for seven years, he looks too good for that. So he’d been back home, and he _said_ he’d tried to email Tony, but he couldn’t have tried very hard. He’s Tony Stark. It’s not like Steve couldn’t have _found_ him, if he’d opened Google or something.

But he hadn’t made the effort, meaning he hadn’t cared enough to try. And Tony… well, Tony’s smart enough to see how that math adds up.

However, he’s also stupid enough to want to see Steve Rogers’ stupid goofy grin at least one more time.

He pulls out his phone, and his thumbs skate across the surface of the touch screen as he fires off a quick text.

_Hey, Steve, it’s Tony. It was crazy running into you today._

He doesn’t send it. Looks it over again. Deletes it.

_Hey, Steve. Tony Stark here. Nice to see you this morning!_

Nice to see you? Eugh. Tony deletes that, too.

_Hey, Steve. It’s Tony. What are you doing later?_

Except that sounds like a proposition, and that’s not where Tony wants to go with this.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck,” he sighs, glaring up at the ceiling.

He takes a deep breath, and tries one more time.

_Hey, Steve. It’s Tony. Hi._

He sends it before he can talk himself out of it, and he really wants a drink but that’s stupid, he’s done with that, so instead he slips his phone into his pocket and pulls out a tablet to work on some specs for the newest version of the prosthetic limbs he’s been working on, this time with pressure sensors that will, hopefully, actually send natural signals to the brain.

He’s working on it just long enough to get in the groove and let his nervous anxiety dissipate when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls up the messaging app on his tablet, since they’re linked, and reads it.

_Tony! Hi! I’m so glad I ran into you today. I know it was a bit of a shock, but, well, it was for me, too. Anyway. I was real glad to see you._

Tony’s heart thumps in his chest, hammering like thunder. He knows it’s stupid, that he shouldn’t be getting all excited about an objectively polite and somewhat doofy text message.

But it’s from Steve, so.

 _Me, too._ Tony texts back. _You doing anything for dinner? We could catch up._

He sends it before he can chicken out. A response comes almost immediately.

 _That would be great_.

Oh, shit, Tony thinks. Now he’s done it. Oh god oh god oh god now he has a _date_ with _Steve Rogers_ who is very decidedly not dead.

“Fuck,” he says aloud.

_There’s this really amazing place just outside of Red Hook if you want? You still like Italian, don’t you?_

Tony stares at his phone. He has a date with Steve Rogers. He can’t decide if he wants the floor to open and swallow him whole so he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his day panicking about what is sure to be an awkward, horrifying date where Tony wants nothing more than to leap across the table and situate himself in Steve’s lap, however unwelcome he may be there, or if he wants to go on said date and then stop time so he can be there in that moment forever.

 _Sure,_ he types.

Steve sends him an address, and Tony goes to stare mournfully at the clothes he packed with him for this trip and hate every single outfit possibility.

 

+++++

 

Tony is fashionably late (definitely not because he’d had to work through a minor panic attack or anything) to the little Italian place Steve had picked out, and Steve is already seated at an intimate little booth, drinking water from a wine glass while his perfect blue eyes dance in the light of the candle on the table. Tony instantly both regrets his decision to come, and commits the image to memory.

Steve’s eyes light up and his smile stretches wide as he waves to Tony, and Tony moves across the restaurant feeling somewhat out of place in in the casual dining room, with his bespoke Armani suit jacket. He slides in across from Steve, taking in the soft-looking long sleeved T-shirt he’s wearing. It’s a warm olive green colour that brings out the blue in his eyes and Tony knows he’s sunk.

“Tony, you made it,” Steve says, standing to greet him. God, Steve’s even wearing what look like soft, broken-in jeans, and Tony wants to rub his cheek against the denim.

“Yeah. I – you, too.”

Tony could swear he used to be charming and cool under pressure.

They stare awkwardly for a moment, and then Steve takes an abortive step forward. “Can I – can I hug you?” he finally asks, looking embarrassed, his cheeks flushing pink.

Tony can’t deny him anything. “Yeah,” he croaks. Clears his throat a little. “That’d be fine.”

Steve moves forward again, almost hesitantly, and then reaches out and pulls Tony into a warm, solid hug.

Tony can feel Steve’s heart beating in his chest, pounding a little faster than ‘resting’. He’s enveloped in warm, soothing heat. His body is held close by solid, thick biceps, against Steve’s hard, muscled chest. He’s dizzy with the scent of Steve’s slightly spicy cologne, the smell of charcoal and mint and citrus. And, under all that, the tantalizing scent of Steve’s skin. It’s exactly as Tony had remembered it.

He lets himself tuck his nose into Steve’s collarbone so he can breathe it in, fill his lungs with the smell of this hug. The smell of Steve.

Steve’s hands are slightly clammy, and Tony is grateful for that little sign that Steve is as nervous about this meeting as Tony is. Tony hugs him back, arms wrapping around Steve’s waist and giving a little squeeze.

He pulls back before he wants to, but he knows he must. He’d much rather stay wrapped up in Steve’s arms for the rest of his life, but that’s not an option. So he pulls back, and offers Steve a lopsided smile.

“You do still give the best hugs,” he says, moving toward his side of the booth. He’s feeling more settled, a little easier. He’s still nervous, terrified, but it’s _Steve_ , and Tony had always felt at ease with Steve. “If I wasn’t sure you were the real Steve Rogers before, I am now.”

Steve huffs a sound of amusement and moves to his own seat, sitting back down. Almost before Tony is slid all the way into the booth, a server is there to fill a water glass for him with a flourish.

“Good evening,” the waiter smiles, professional and polite. “What can I get you two to drink tonight?” He hands two menus to Steve, and Steve passes one of them across the booth to Tony.

“I think I’m fine with water,” Steve says, glancing down at his menu. Tony feels his face flush. Of course Steve would know that Tony’s a recovering addict, that he’s sober, that alcohol is off the table, so to speak. And, of _course_ , Steve would take that knowledge and roll with it, stick to water for the evening just so he wouldn’t have to shove a beer in Tony’s face. Again, so to speak.

“You don’t have to,” Tony says, glancing down. “You can have a glass of wine or something if you want.”

Steve gives a little shrug. “Doesn’t mix well with my meds,” he says, open and honest and beautiful.

Tony wants to be swallowed whole by the floor, but he presses on, because one of the many things that had been drilled into him in rehab is that he’s responsible for his own feelings, and humiliation has a lot of different layers. When you’ve spent the better part of a week going through withdrawal symptoms in a drug rehab centre while talking about your abandonment issues, you sort of learn to roll with the punches.

“Water’s good for me, too,” Tony says, and the waiter nods.

“I’ll be back in just a few minutes to take your order,” he says, walking away to greet guests at another table.

The awkwardness settles over the table like a thick blanket.

“So, um… hi,” Tony says, his knee bouncing under the table a little.

“Hi.” Steve gives him a shy little grin. “It’s nice to see you.”

“A little surreal,” Tony admits.

“Yeah, I… sorry. About, you know, you thinking I was dead,” Steve starts, but Tony cuts him off.

“You’re _not_. You’re here. It’s… amazing, and wonderful, and unbelievable, and you can’t apologize for that.”

“I never meant for you to – I should have, I don’t know, tried to contact you. When I – when I got back.”

Tony doesn’t say anything for a moment. He doesn’t know how to respond to Steve’s misguided sense of guilt. “Don’t worry about it. You had stuff going on. Besides, we barely knew each other,” Tony says.

Steve’s eyes shutter, like windows in a storm. “Is that… is that how you feel?”

And Tony wants to tell him that of course it is, wants to deny he’d ever had feelings for Steve in the first place. Wants to be the breezy, standoffish billionaire the tabloids have made him out to be – a reputation he’s embraced with arms wide open.

But Steve’s face is so sad, his eyes so gentle.

“No,” he says, unable to meet Steve’s gaze. He stares at the table top instead. “No, that’s not how I feel.”

And Steve’s grin lights up the whole restaurant.

 

+++++

 

Halfway through dinner, Tony knows he’s fucked with a capital F. They haven’t been talking about anything of substance. Mostly reminiscence, the odd comment to catch one another up on the last few years of their friends’ lives. Bucky’s got one of Tony’s prosthetic arms, which Tony’s a little tickled by, and he makes Steve promise to get the two of them in a room together so Tony can get a first-hand accounting of how the arm works, and feedback about how to change it.

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, ask any of the, um, patients?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “The technicians and doctors can’t get answers out of them because everyone’s got this weird need to please. They’re all comparing the prosthetics to previous prosthetics – I want them to compare them to previous _limbs_.”

“So tell them that.”

“People lie, Steve.”

“That’s not very charitable,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow.

“But it’s true. I’m not saying they’re lying specifically to mess with my research or my product, but they want us to be happy, successful, they want to keep their new limbs. So they say what they think we want to hear.”

“And you don’t think Bucky will do that?”

“Having _met_ Bucky,” Tony grins, “I’m fairly certain he won’t do that.”

Steve grins back. “Fair point.”

Tony takes a sip of his water, busies himself with using his fork to scoop up some extra sauce and pierce a tortellini pocket.

“I know it’s not – not my place, or anything, but, I just – Tony, I’m real proud of you,” Steve says, and Tony freezes for a moment before he looks up to meet Steve’s face in shock. Steve’s cheeks are lightly coloured with a slight flush.

“Um?”

“For what you’re doing. With your life. With your work. Before I – before I was captured, before that mission, I know we said some stuff. And I never meant to – to imply that I knew better than you, or that you couldn’t do something good in the world. You working on weapons was – wasn’t my business. I’m sorry about that. But I’m so, so proud of what you’re doing now, with the prosthetics. You’re making a real difference in people’s lives.” Steve’s mouth turns up in a small grin. “Buck… he had a real hard time after he lost his arm. I wasn’t – I wasn’t around, but Nat said. That he didn’t do well. And when I got home, the one he had wasn’t… it got him by, it was enough, but the one you made? It’s like he never lost his arm at all.”

Tony stares at the table cloth.

“I just wanted you to know that,” Steve says, his voice quiet.

“I didn’t realize, for a while, that I could stop. Weapons, I mean. My, um, ex-girlfriend reminded me.”

“I’m glad you’re doing what you want,” Steve smiles.

Tony takes a long drink of water, if for no other reason than to allow the subject to drop.

“So,” he says, when he puts the glass back down. “Enough about me. What about you? What have you been up to?”

Steve blinks at him owlishly. “Oh, you know, just…”

“Oh, God, I’m such an asshole,” Tony says, burying his face in his hands. “That was – God. Shocking but true, my mouth did _not_ learn to catch up with my brain at all since the last time I saw you.”

Steve huffs out a chuckle. “It’s okay, Tony. I, uh, I’ve gotten better at talking about it, if you want to? If you have questions?”

Tony stares.

“Seriously,” Steve says, taking a bite of his risotto. “If you want. I really don’t mind. If I don’t feel comfortable answering, then I won’t.”

Tony blinks a few times, but Steve waits patiently.

“How did you get home?” Tony finally asks, thinking it might be the safest question to ask. He’s done his stints in rehab and therapy, he knows what kind of landmine he’s negotiating.

Steve glances at the table top, his eyes shuttering. Tony’s about to apologize, tell him he’s overstepped, change the subject, when Steve takes a deep breath and offers a wry smile.

“Unrelated SEAL raid,” Steve says. “I tried to escape five or six times while I was there, and in the end I had to get rescued by the Navy.”

Tony snorts. “God, you really _have_ been through a lot.”

Steve grins up at him, more genuine this time. “That’s what I keep saying! Everyone’s all ‘oh, you’re so lucky, you should be grateful,’ but… it’s the _Navy_.” Steve gives a mock shudder of horror.

“Tough pill to swallow,” Tony agrees, deadpan.

“Anyway. I was on my last escape attempt when they raided the compound, looking for a few of the higher-ups of the terrorist cell. I had a couple of the other prisoners gathered in the hallway, out of their cells, but I couldn’t get us any further because my leg had about given up by then.”

“You were injured?”

Steve’s mouth pinches. “I was dying,” he finally says after a moment. Tony’s heart stops, then pounds, blood rushing in his ears at the mere thought of it. “I’d been… well, my most recent escape attempt had been just a few weeks before. I’d gotten out of the building, that time. But they caught me, and they dragged me back inside and took me for… well. Corporal punishment.”

“Oh, Steve.” Tony’s heart breaks open a little, thinking of Steve having to endure torture.

“They whipped me,” Steve says, not quite meeting Tony’s eyes. His voice is low, and Tony knows, deep in his bones, not to interrupt Steve now. “Tied me to a post,” he continues, “and whipped my back until I bled. It was – it was bad. By the time they finished, I couldn’t even stand up, and they had to drag me back to my cell.”

He twitches up one corner of his mouth in a humourless grin. “They dragged me down the hallway, and my leg caught on, I don’t know, something sharp and dirty. Didn’t go that deep, but my immune system was compromised from the lack of nutrition and sunlight, and it got infected. I was almost delirious when I decided to try and break out again, and take a few of my fellow prisoners with me. I’d always figured it would be easier to get out alone, and I’d come back for them all later, but turns out that a crowd of seven prisoners in a hallway catches the attention of the SEALS when they come to pick off a terrorist cell.”

“So you got out.”

Steve nods. “We got out. Nearly lost my leg, but we got out. Spent the next month or so in a military hospital overseas, then they transferred me back stateside so I could do my rehab and stuff here.”

“Wow. God, Steve, the stuff you’ve been through.”

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Lots of people have been through worse, Tony,” he says. “Lots of people that maybe didn’t come out as good as I did. I’ve got my leg strong enough I can run now. I’m alive, and I’m here, and I don’t ever have to go back into that cell.”

“No, you don’t,” Tony says fiercely, reaching his hand across the table and clasping Steve’s.

Steve squeezes back, a soft smile on his face.

They move on to less serious topics. Tony talks about his work, about Jarvis, about Pepper. Steve talks about Bucky and Natasha, about his work at the VA, about his friend Sam.

They’ve been at the restaurant for hours, and it’s late. Steve takes the last bite of his tiramisu, then places his spoon down on the plate. He graces Tony with a blinding, magnificent smile.

“I’m so glad we ran into each other,” he sighs, leaning forward on his elbow and staring into Tony’s eyes. “I missed you so much. I thought about you every day.”

“Um?” Tony says, feeling his scalp prickle and his lungs tighten.

“That’s what kept me alive, most days,” Steve says, reaching out a hand and taking Tony’s in his. “Thinking I needed to come home so I could see you.”

Oh.

Suddenly, Tony realizes he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake.

“Oh. Oh, Steve, that’s – we can’t – I didn’t –”

Tony can’t seem to get his mouth to cooperate and spit out a full sentence. His mental klaxon alarm is blaring angrily in his head, his throat is gripped by panic.

He _wants_ Steve, sure, but a lifetime of experience has taught him that the people he loves? They don’t stick around. Jarvis, sure, and Pepper and Rhodey, but anyone he’s ever been in a relationship with? Gone. Tony knows he’s better in small doses, that most people can’t handle him long-term – and they shouldn’t have to.

Nevermind the fact he’s a recovering addict. Emotional attachment will only lead to heartbreak and relapse, and he’s not prepared to go back to that life just yet.

Steve’s face falls a little, but he schools it quickly. “Oh, no, of course – I didn’t mean – of course you wouldn’t –”

Tony feels like he’s making a terrible mistake, but it’s as though he’s watching it from the outside, unable to stop himself. “I’m just not looking for a relationship or anything,” he shrugs. “You understand.”

“Right,” Steve says, face flaming. “Yeah, no, of course.”

Awkward silence descends over the table, and Tony lifts a hand to signal the waiter that they’re finished with their desserts. He approaches with the bill, and Tony holds up his credit card.

“Oh, you don’t have to –” Steve says, his voice sounding tight.

“No, no, I insist,” Tony answers. He can hear the tone of his voice and it makes him want to punch himself in the mouth. He sounds distant, and simpering, and slick. He sounds like the Tony Stark in the tabloids – and he hates that Tony Stark.

He collects his card back, signing the receipt with a flourish and an exorbitant tip.

“So,” he says, standing up from the table and slipping his wallet back into his pocket. He slides his suit jacket on. “This was nice. We should do it again – as friends, of course.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, a wan smile forced onto his face. “We should.”

Tony gestures for Steve to walk out ahead of him, and he follows. He can’t help it – he stares at Steve’s ass as they walk. He’s turned this down, turned Steve away, but he’s not blind to his own feelings, and he’s certainly not blind to how gorgeous Steve still is.

One more reason to keep his distance – it will make it easier for Steve to find the right person to spend the rest of his life with. He certainly shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone, and Tony thinks it would be impossible for anyone to be around Steve and not fall besottedly in love. Keeping things platonic between them will give Steve the opportunity to meet someone good for him. Someone who might deserve even half the goodness Steve has inside him.

When they reach the street, Steve turns. “Well, it was nice to see you,” he says formally.

“Let me drive you home, at least,” Tony says, gesturing to his silver Audi, parked a few spaces down from the entrance.

“Oh, no, I’m out of your way,” Steve says.

“I don’t mind.”

“No, no. It’s not that far, I can catch the train.”

“Are you sure?” Tony can feel the evening slipping through his fingers. He chose this, sure, but it still hurts, still feels like all the air is being sucked from around him so he can’t get a proper breath in.

“Yeah. Thanks, again, for dinner,” Steve says, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes look cold and distant. He won’t hold Tony’s gaze. “See you around?”

“I really did mean we should be friends,” Tony blurts. “I don’t – I don’t want to be ‘see you around’ friends. I want to be ‘make plans to hang out, go for drinks – well, not drinks, maybe chicken wings – together’ friends. Don’t – I don’t want you to –”

Steve’s face hardens a little. “Tony, I’m not – I’m not brushing you off. I can – I think you’re right, we should be, um, friends. I don’t – I don’t want you to think we can’t be friends.”

“Oh,” Tony says, feeling his chest loosen a little. “Good. That’s good.”

“Okay. So. Friends.”

“Friends,” Tony confirms.

“Okay, pal,” Steve says, the ghost of a wry grin creeping across his mouth. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I look forward to it,” Tony says.

Steve turns and heads toward the subway station. Tony watches him walk away for a long time before he finally turns toward his car and heads back to the Tower.

What he really, really wants is a drink.

 

+++++

 

He doesn’t have a drink. He emails Pepper, though, and tells her he’s reconsidered, and he doesn’t hate the idea of moving to New York anymore. He can do his work anywhere, sure, but the board is in New York so why not live here, in Stark Tower, and be closer to all of it. Plus, New York is where the prosthetics trials are being run, so his presence here will be good for the program.

He turns off his Stark Pad before he can see her response, knowing she’s going to think it’s because of Steve.

And, really, it is. They’re going to be just friends, sure, but Tony still wants to be around him. He can push down his feelings, force himself to keep his distance, if it means he can be around Steve all the time. That can be enough for him.

He ignores the chimes of incoming text messages from Pepper, and a couple from Rhodey.

He turns off all his electronics – it might be the first time he’s done that in his life – and he goes to bed. He tries, and fails, to cling to the faint hope that the end of the evening had been a dream, and that he hadn’t been so stupid as to turn Steve Rogers down.

 

+++++

 

The first time they hang out as ‘friends’ is a couple of weeks later. Steve texts Tony on Wednesday and asks if he’d like to join them (he doesn’t elaborate on who ‘them’ is, but Tony imagines it will include Bucky and Natasha) at a karaoke bar on Friday. Tony’s ready to turn him down because, sure he’s sober now but going to a bar is sort of just _asking_ to fall off the wagon, isn’t it?

Before he can make his excuses, though, a second text comes through.

 _It’s a dry bar_ , Steve sends him. _No alcohol there_.

And Tony is torn between feeling touched that Steve remembered and thought about him, and annoyed that Steve doesn’t trust him to be around booze without having a drink.

(Nevermind the fact that he’d been having the same thoughts, himself, moments ago.)

 _Sure_ , Tony texts back, and spends the next two days nearly vibrating with anticipation of seeing Steve again.

When he walks into ‘Karao-in-the-Key-of-E’, the place is packed. He’s a little surprised, to be honest – he would have thought sober karaoke wasn’t exactly at the top of anyone’s list when it came to Friday night entertainment. He spots Steve’s blond head, sticking out in a sea of smaller people, at a booth in a corner beside the stage, and he makes his way over.

He’s re-introduced to Natasha and Bucky, then he’s introduced to Sam, Wanda, Carol and Clint, friends Steve has made since he’s been back in the US. Tony makes pleasantries for a while, then turns to Bucky and spends the next half hour talking about Bucky’s arm, and Stark Industries’ plans in the near future when it comes to prosthetics.

He’s talking animatedly to Bucky about articulated joints, pressure sensors and silent hydraulics, when a trumpet shaped glass full of layered orange and red liquid is placed in front of him. There’s a jaunty little paper umbrella in it, stabbed through a bright green maraschino cherry and half a strawberry.

He glances up at Steve, who’d slid the drink down on the table. He’s about to protest that, if he _were_ going to drink booze, it would be a nice smooth scotch, but Steve gives him a soft smile. “They don’t serve alcohol, doesn’t mean they don’t make a mean mocktail.”

Tony blinks at it, then back up at Steve. “I can’t believe I’m about to drink a mocktail. I feel like a soccer mom working on the point-fifth kid.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Shut up and drink your fruity drink.”

“You know what, I will, and I won’t even be ashamed,” Tony announces, picking up the glass and taking a small sip. Sugar, fruit juice, and more sugar explode on his tongue, and honestly, Tony feels bad for anything disparaging he might have said about the concept of mocktails. It’s sweet, with notes of grapefruit, pineapple, and cherry, but there’s a lemony tartness to it as well. It’s rich, as though there’s been cream mixed in.

“Good, right?” Steve says.

“It’s like a sugar coma and dessert in a glass,” Tony tells him. “Who allowed this to happen? Am I getting diabetes?” Tony turns to Bucky. “Do I look like I’m getting diabetes to you?”

“ _You’re_ the innovative genius behind this?” Bucky asks, holding up his arm with an expression of mock disbelief. “I’m not buying it.”

“I get no respect,” Tony pouts, leaning forward to take another slurping drink of his dessert-in-a-glass.

“All right,” announces Clint, waggling his eyebrows at the table. “Enough mocktail chatter. I think the DJ is getting ready to start. Who’s going up first?”

Everyone looks around at each other, obviously trying to direct attention away from themselves, so Clint rolls his eyes and saunters over to the DJ’s booth.

“We’ll be listening to 80s power ballads all night if someone doesn’t go up there and stop him,” Carol announces, leaning back in her chair to take a sip of her own mocktail. Tony’s eye catches the light reflecting off the pendant hanging over her T-shirt – a sobriety chip.

Well, at least he’s not the only one at the table.

Wanda reaches over and laces her fingers with Carol’s, grinning up at her. “You say that everytime,” she says with her soft slavic accent. “But you never go to stop him.”

Carol shrugs. “He has a good voice.”

“Better him than Steve,” Bucky says, raising his mocktail in salute.

Steve looks affronted. “Hey! I’m not that bad,” he protests, which sends Sam and Bucky into peals of laughter.

“Man, you sound like a herd of dying cats fighting it out with another herd of dying cats,” Sam tells him. “It ain’t right.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Talk to me the next time you’re up there butchering something from the Trouble Man soundtrack.”

“I didn’t butcher a thing, you take that back.”

“I will not.”

Tony watches the easy back and forth banter and suddenly feels a sharp sense of sadness. He misses Rhodey, suddenly. And he, inexplicably, misses the easy friendship he and Steve had once had, when they’d been sleeping together and Tony had been secretly in love with him.

_It doesn’t have to be a secret anymore. He wants you again. You could have him._

Tony turns that thought off in a hurry. He knows better. He’s spent most of the evening feeling slightly awkward, like a last-minute add-on to their group. They all know one another so well, they’re all so close, and Tony feels like he’s on the outside looking in.

And Steve and Sam seem close. Tony supposes it makes sense, with Bucky and Natasha being together. Steve would need someone outside of their relationship to spend time with, and Sam’s a good fit.

They look good together, too, which Tony tries not to think too hard about.

The lights go dim, pulling Tony out of his thoughts. They all look toward the stage, where a single spotlight glows over Clint. He’s grinning like a loon.

The first lines of the song come up on the screen, and Bucky is the first one to burst out laughing.

“Well, I guess it’s not a ballad,” Carol says with a wry grin.

“Oh, this is good,” Sam says.

Steve’s face is red, oddly.

The crowd in the bar bursts into applause, and Clint gives their table an exaggerated wink, and then he starts to sing. His voice is nice – rich and warm, with just a hint of a rasp to it.

“If I… should stay,” he sings, and Tony snorts.

“I would only be in your way,” Clint continues – Natasha, Bucky, Sam and Carol all join in, in various keys.

Wanda is laughing too hard to sing along, and Steve is bright red, burying his hands in his face.

Tony can only watch them all, a strange sense that he’s intruding at the back of his mind.

“I will always love you!” Clint belts, and Tony’s impressed that, while he might not be trying for the highest notes, he’s doing a pretty good job of it all.

“So how exactly do you know everyone here?” Tony finally asks Steve, leaning over to speak quietly into his bright red ear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve mumbles into his hand. “I don’t know any of these people.”

Tony laughs at him. “Seriously. I know Bucky and Natasha, but you never mentioned Clint or Wanda or Carol before.”

Steve glares affectionately at Bucky and Natasha, who are still singing along through their laughter.

“Clint was in my unit overseas,” he finally says. “Lost most of his hearing in the attack where I – anyway. He kept in touch with Bucky after, when they both got home, and when Bucky introduced him to Nat, the two of them became inseparable. Clint and Nat, I mean.”

“And the rest?”

“Sam from the VA. Carol, too, actually. Wanda came with Carol.”

“Where’s Wanda from?”

“Sokovia,” Steve says. “Carol met her when she was stationed over there. Brought Wanda back – technically, she’s a refugee.”

“And I – yes, I will alllllllllways looooooooooove youuuuuuuuuuuuu,” Clint belts out. Tony is suddenly even more impressed with his voice, clear and bright despite being hard of hearing.

When the song finishes, the audience roars, and Clint bows a few times before he comes back to the table.

It goes on like that for a while. There are some terrible singers, and terrible songs. There are also great singers and great songs. Bucky and Sam do a terrible – but somehow amazing – rendition of ‘Ebony and Ivory,’ and Clint and Natasha each sing several more ‘lost love’ songs. The way Steve’s face goes red every time clues Tony into the fact that there’s a bit of a theme to it, and he feels his own face flush.

How could they tell that he’s pining after Steve? They hardly know him, and this is the first time Tony’s even met Clint. Steve’s blushes are part second-hand embarrassment for Tony, and part humiliation that they’ve noticed Steve is the subject of Tony’s affections.

Tony knows he should walk away. Trying to be just friends was a bad idea. But he can’t – not when the alternative is living the rest of his life without Steve in it.

So he drinks his mocktails and he watches karaoke.

 

+++++

 

A couple of weeks later, Steve invites Tony to a game of Ultimate Frisbee in Central Park. It’s mostly the same crowd, except Natasha doesn’t come.

Tony ends up on a team with Bucky, which he’s pretty pleased about because, well, he’s fully aware of the technical capabilities of Bucky’s _Stark-designed prosthetic arm._

What he hadn’t been aware of was Bucky’s incredible aim. He seems to have no trouble throwing the frisbee wherever he wants it to go. He’s only matched by Clint, on the opposite team, who manages to be even more accurate while also _not_ having a nanotech arm and while being much, much more showy about it. He’s flexible and acrobatic, and he’ll often do a backflip or a series of gymnastics hops while throwing the frisbee in the middle. When they take a break to drink some water, sweat pouring down their faces, Bucky explains that Clint had grown up in the circus, before joining the army.

Tony is very mature with that information, and begins to call Clint ‘Bozo the Clown’ for the duration of the game.

However, as accurate and skilled as Bucky and Clint are, and as well as Tony does himself – it’s geometry, he can kill at this the way he hustles pool if he wants – no one can compare to Steve.

It’s not that he has impeccable aim. It’s not even that he can use geometry and physics to predict where a teammate is going to be, like Tony, so he knows where to throw. What Steve does with the frisbee is unfathomable. He bounces it off trees, off signposts, off the ground, and it still manages not to lose its momentum, flying into the waiting hand of Clint or Wanda. Sam’s on Tony’s team, and he’s fast as hell, but even he can’t intercept Steve’s throws.

By the end of the game, Tony is winded and tired, and he knows they’ve lost but not by how much. All he can think about is the ridiculously happy grin on Steve’s face, and the way his cheeks are flushed – healthy and joyous.

It makes Tony’s heart ache with loneliness.

 

+++++

 

Tony purchases a luxury box for the Giants game. He doesn’t know anything about football, except maybe some statistics that don’t matter. What he does know is that Steve and Sam have a habit of talking about it a lot, and Steve loves the Patriots. They’re in town for a game, so Tony gets the box and invites them all.

Carol and Wanda decline. Carol says ‘even I’m not butch enough for football, Stark,” and leaves it at that. Bucky and Nat want to know more about the perks of a luxury box, and when Tony explains the snacks and drinks and one on one service – nevermind the ergonomic, luxury seating – they immediately agree to come. Steve, Clint and Sam are so excited that Tony thinks Steve might be about to kiss him, before Steve remembers himself and backs away, looking awkward.

God, Tony hates himself.

Tony has no idea how the game goes. He thinks the Patriots might be winning, because Steve, who is completely rapt on the game, seems excited and happy. But Sam, a Giants fan, seems equally pleased, so Tony can’t be sure.

All he can really say for sure is that Steve looks completely, incredibly happy. Tony can’t stop looking at him, watching him as he enjoys the game.

Tony catches Bucky and Natasha looking at him a couple of times, but he ignores the weird expressions on their faces. They can look as smug and ridiculous as they want – Tony’s not going to give them the satisfaction of reacting to it.

He knows full well he’s in deeper than he meant to be, deeper than is healthy. He doesn’t need people pointing it out for him.

 

+++++

 

They go to the karaoke bar again. Tony has been texting with Rhodey all day. Rhodey has repeatedly told him he needs to stop being an idiot and tell Steve he has feelings for him, but Tony has reminded Rhodey each time of his terrible romantic history.

“You sure that’s on you, Tones?” Rhodey had asked this morning over the phone, his voice quiet and soft. Gentle.

It made Tony’s skin prickle, so he made up an excuse to hang up the phone. Rhodey hadn’t stopped texting him, though.

They’ve been at Karao-in-the-Key-of-E for about an hour when Steve glances over and catches Tony texting again.

“You’ve been buried in your phone all night,” Steve says, and where it would have sounded like a complaint from Ty or from Rumiko, it’s mostly just concern from Steve. “Is everything okay? Is it work?”

Tony smiles ruefully and puts his phone down. “No, sorry. Rhodey’s mad at me, he’s been texting me all day.”

“Why is he mad at you?” Steve asks, still only just concerned.

Tony shrugs, taking a sip of his colourful blue mocktail before he answers. “Nothing major. Just not a fan of some decisions I’ve been making lately.”

Steve’s face starts to look defensive. “How are your decisions any of his business, anyway?” he asks.

Tony blinks for a moment, only just coming to the realization – Steve is defending _him_.

“Oh. Um. It’s not – not like that. He thinks I should make a different decision than I made. It’s not – it’s not that he’s _mad_ at me for doing what I – what I’m doing, he’s just… trying to convince me. To do the other thing.”

Steve’s face softens. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tony can only imagine how that particular conversation would go. He has no desire to be laughed out of a non-alcoholic karaoke bar.

“Nah. It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure? I’m your friend, Tony, I don’t mind listening. You know that.”

And Tony does the only thing he can think of to get out of an uncomfortable conversation. He decides the best way out is a distraction.

And, well, they _are_ in a karaoke bar.

He excuses himself and basically _runs_ up to the DJ booth, selecting his song without putting any thought into it at all. He probably should have, but he doesn’t think about it until well after he’s started singing.

“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days,” he sings. He keeps his eyes closed, because he really, really does not want to watch the peanut gallery over there laughing at him as he sings. “Since you took your love away.”

He takes a deep breath, letting himself get lost in the song.

“I go out every night and sleep all day, since you took your love away.”

There are bursts of clapping from the audience, and Tony can’t help but grin a little because, really, everyone loves Sinead. He opens his eyes, and chances a glance over at their table – Bucky, Natasha, and Sam are staring at him, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. Clint is grinning, bobbing his head in time with the music’s heavy bass beat. Wanda and Carol are singing along, staring into each other’s eyes as they do it.

Steve is staring at him, expressionless.

And that’s when Tony realizes he should have picked a different song.

Literally any other song.

But it’s too late, now. He’s locked in. He’s halfway through, ad he has to see it to the end.

“‘Cause nothing compares… nothing compares to you,” Tony sings, feeling his face heat up. He closes his eyes again because he can’t bare to look at the horrified expression on Steve’s face. He belts it out because, frankly, if he’s going to go down, he’s going to go down swinging, with a bang and a lightshow – no slinking off into the night for Tony fucking Stark.

He hits the bridge, hits all the notes, and as soon as the singing part is over, he heads back to his seat. He’s sitting down before the instrumental fades out, and the bar has erupted into applause.

“Wow, Tony,” Sam says with a big grin and a few nods of his head. “Full respect, man, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“You have a lovely voice,” Wanda adds, leaning over to clasp Tony’s wrist. It’s a gentle touch, but Tony’s skin feels prickly with humiliation and he wants to shy away from it.

“That was amazing,” Steve says, and his voice sounds strange. Like it’s tight, and thick, and hoarse. He doesn’t meet Tony’s eyes, doesn’t say anything else. He just glances at the watch on his wrist. “Seriously, Tony, that was – I don’t – I completely forgot, I have some stuff to do at the VA, so I, um, I have to –” he stands up, reaching for his jacket on the back of his chair, patting his pockets absently as though making sure he has his keys or his phone. “I have to go,” he stumbles, still not meeting Tony’s eyes. “But that was – wow, Tony.”

And then he’s gone, and Tony stares after him in dismay. He’s not the best singer in the world, sure, but did Steve really have to run away? Or was it really the song choice? Tony knows he shouldn’t have – he should have chosen something fun, something happy and poppy and with no hidden meaning. Steve had probably left because he’d felt so uncomfortable – Tony had, after all, basically just laid all his feelings out on the table.

God, he’s an idiot.

“What a punk,” Bucky breathes, and Tony’s head jerks around to stare at him.

Bucky meets Tony’s hostile gaze head on, just raising his eyebrows as though daring Tony to argue with him.

“Both of ‘em,” Clint agrees with a carefree tilt of his head and a slow smile.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tony asks, face still flaming.

Natasha glares at Bucky and Clint, then leans forward and takes both of Tony’s hands in hers.

“You’re both so stubborn,” she sighs, staring into Tony’s eyes. He wants to look away, but finds himself unable. No one else says a word, and her voice is low so that Tony’s not even sure anyone else at the table can hear her.

“Excuse you?” Tony replies.

Natasha doesn’t break their gaze, doesn’t pull her hands away. She just grips him a little tighter, leans forward a little more so they’re really eye to eye. “Tony. You don’t have to be afraid all the time,” she says after a pause. “Neither does he. You’ve both been hurt, you’ve both had terrible – it doesn’t matter. Can’t you see, it doesn’t matter? Don’t you see the way he looks at you?”

“Like gum he’s had to scrape off his shoe?” Tony mumbles.

“You know that’s not true.”

And Tony does. Steve really does like Tony – as a friend. “He looks at me the way he looks at you, or Bucky, or Sam.”

“He really doesn’t,” Clint pipes up.

“Shush,” Natasha says without looking. Her expression intensifies. “He doesn’t, Tony. That’s not the way he looks at you at all.”

“Look, I don’t know what they’ve been putting in your mocktails –” Tony starts.

Natasha leans back. “I see the way you look at him. How can you look at him the way you do and not see what’s staring you in the face?”

“There’s _nothing_ staring me in the face,” Tony argues, pushing his chair back. He needs to be done with this evening. He’s humiliated himself, Steve has run off because Tony had made a fool of them both, and listening to Natasha try to – what, comfort him? Trick him? He doesn’t know – he doesn’t need that. He’s Tony Stark, and he has things to do.

“I’ve got a meeting in the morning,” he lies. “Conference call. I gotta go.”

“Tony,” Natasha starts.

Tony holds up a hand. “Don’t worry about it, Natasha,” he says. He just barely holds himself back from telling her that her opinion is beneath him. It would be mean – and very, very untrue. “See you guys.”

He drops a few bills on the table to cover his mocktail tab – and everyone else’s, probably, he doesn’t usually carry small bills – and grabs his coat on his way out the door.

The chilly winter air hits his face, making him gasp. He heads straight for the Audi up the street, wondering how his life had gotten so far off the rails in the short span of a few months.

 

+++++

 

He calls Jarvis, who’s still in Malibu, taking care of the house.

“Good afternoon, Anthony,” he says, picking it up on the fourth ring. “I trust New York is treating you well?”

“No, it’s terrible, J, you should come out and make it suck less.”

Jarvis makes a noise that’s similar to a snort, but definitely is _not_ a snort, because that would be entirely too undignified.

“And expose myself to the horrors of New York City noise and Brooklyn hoodlums? I think not,” he says haughtily.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Brooklyn has the hipsters, J. The hoodlums moved to Queens.”

“I’ve already told you, Anthony, I’ll stay at the Malibu house until you admit you’re moving to New York. I’m not going clear across the country only to have to turn around and have to come back to begin boxing up your possessions for transport.”

Tony can’t help grinning at the way Jarvis’ accent somehow gets even more British when he’s making Tony aware that he’s not fooled for a second.

“I’m not moving to New York,” Tony says. “I’m just here while we work on the prosthetic trials. I’ll be home by April. June at the latest.”

The sound Jarvis makes that time most definitely _is_ a snort. “Of course, Sir.”

“Breaking out the ‘Sir?” Tony grins a little wider. Jarvis only calls him ‘Sir’ when he’s trying to throw Tony off the scent of something. “You _do_ want to move out here.”

I will go, as always, where my employment takes me,” Jarvis huffs. “I’m simply waiting patiently for you to decide.”

Tony sighs. “I dunno, J,” he finally admits, in a moment of candor. “It’s probably better if I come home when the last phase of prototypes is out.”

“Oh?” Jarvis replies, too casual. “I thought you were rather enjoying New York. Last we spoke, you spent ten minutes extolling the virtues of all-night taco stands and a nightlife that doesn’t end until past noon.”

Tony shrugs. “It’s just getting old,” he says. “I’m over it.”

“What’s happened, Tony?” Jarvis asks, his voice softening. Tony closes his eyes, ignoring the hot sting behind them.

Only Jarvis would cut right to the heart of the matter, and somehow realize that Tony’s not being entirely truthful. Of course, Jarvis had been his father’s butler before Tony had even been born, had been there to guide Tony through his childhood, his adulthood, and everything in between. Jarvis had, truthfully, been more of a parent to Tony than Howard had – teaching him kindness and compassion rather than ambition and power. And Jarvis had always taken the time to connect with Tony, to understand him on a deeper level.

“Nothing’s happened,” he lies.

“Tony.”

Tony sighs. “I just – I screwed something up,” he says.

“With the prosthetics?” Jarvis asks, his tone surprised. “I hardly believe that.”

“No, with – there’s this, um… I recently reconnected with someone,” he finally decides.

Jarvis doesn’t speak for a moment. “Romantically?”

“Yeah – well, no, not – we used to –”

“Anthony.”

Jarvis’ kind but no-nonsense tone is enough to settle Tony enough to spit it out.

“We were. Once upon a time. And then – it was ten years ago, and I ran into him on the street a few months ago.”

“I see.”

“And it’s just – I did something dumb. And I haven’t heard from him the last couple of days.”

“May I ask what it is you think you’ve done wrong?”

His voice is kind, and Tony wants to hang up. “I – it doesn’t matter. We’re just friends, that’s all we’ll ever – but I might have, I don’t know, accidentally made it seem like I wanted to be something more? I guess?”

“Do you?”

God, Jarvis always was too smart for Tony’s own good.

“Do I what?” Tony asks, stalling.

“Wish to be more than simply friends with this young man?”

“No! Oh, God, no, that would be –” Tony laughs a little, hears it coming out on the verge of hysteria but can’t do much to stop it. “No. Really no.”

“Why not?”

“He’s – well, I mean, he’s… he’s a vet. Like, a veteran, not, um, a cat doctor, or whatever, that would be – hey, do you think I should get a cat?”

“Certainly, Sir, would you like me to put a call into a few breeders?”

The haughty, ‘don’t bullshit me, Stark’ British tone is back, and it actually calms Tony some.

“No, J, that’s – no. It’s fine. I’m just saying, he’s a veteran. So he’s, you know, a hero.”

“Is he in the prosthetics beta trial?”

“No. He’s still got – his friend is, though. Anyway, he’s just, he’s a hero, he volunteers at the VA, he’s an artist.”

“I see. He sounds like a charming young man.”

“He is,” Tony sighs. “But he’s, you know, Steve. And I’m – I’m not looking for, um, that.”

Tony would swear, later, that he could actually hear Jarvis raise an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Not looking for what, exactly? A charming young man?”

“Right,” Tony says. “I’m not – I don’t want a relationship. All I’ve ever done is fail at relationships, Jarv.”

“Tony,” Jarvis says, voice soft again. “Do you remember, when you were a little boy, you took one of your toy dogs and put an artificial intelligence into it so it would steal cookies from the kitchen?”

Tony huffs a laugh. “God, that thing.”

Jarvis chuckles warmly. “You loved that dog.”

“Robot dog.”

“You loved that robot dog,” Jarvis amends. “You loved it with all your heart. Do you recall what happened to it?”

Tony shrugs. “Dad sold the tech, sent me to school.”

Jarvis sighs. “Your father felt that artificial intelligence upgrades to your toys were a waste of your time, of your potential,” he continues. “He thought your talents would be better suited with more marketable pursuits.”

“Seemed pretty marketable to me,” Tony mutters.

“Do you remember building it?”

Tony thinks back. Flashes, maybe, of opening the little panel on the toy’s belly, hooking the circuit board up to his father’s laptop and rewriting the code. Remembers installing more joints in the dog’s legs so it would be more mobile.

Jarvis continues, doesn’t wait for him to answer. “You worked on it for weeks. You tried and you tried, over and over again. At first, you couldn’t get the limbs to move the way you wanted them to. Then, you had trouble keeping it on task – it would wander off halfway through raiding the kitchen. If I’m not mistaken, it once came back to you with a carrot.”

Tony chuckles. “Yeah, I fought with that little bastard for ages.”

“But you never gave up, Tony. Do you know why?”

“Because of cookies?”

Jarvis laughs. “No, Tony. Because it was something you _wanted_. I don’t think it was ever really about the baked goods. You wanted to build it. You wanted to succeed.”

“Where exactly is this story going, J?”

“You are capable of great things, Tony. You always have been.”

“Right, but that’s not – that doesn’t mean I’m good at relationships. I mean, look at my track record. Dad could barely stand the sight of me, and all Mom wanted to do was marry me off to some society girl and have babies, and I couldn’t manage that before they died. Ty cheated on me for as long as we were together. If I’d been a half decent boyfriend, he never would have done that. And I wasn’t good enough to make it work with Rumiko, either. I mean, she went all the way to the other side of the world to get away from me, because I couldn’t be what she needed.”

“Your past relationships didn’t fail because _you_ failed,” Jarvis says fiercely. “Never, _ever_ think that.”

“But they –”

“No, Tony. That’s not your fault. Sometimes relationships fail. Sometimes, someone’s career is more important to them than love. Sometimes some daft pillock with half a bollock for a brain can’t keep his trousers on for longer than 10 minutes. None of that is your fault.”

Tony’s laughing, now, a little, at Jarvis’ description of Ty. He really never had liked Ty.

“You are Anthony Edward Stark,” Jarvis continues. “And you can do anything, _anything_ you put your mind to. You built a robot dog when you were seven years old, Tony. You have never failed at anything you’ve ever put a solid effort into. You didn’t fail those relationships – Mr. Stone and Ms. Fujikawa did.”

“Jarvis –”

“Since you were barely more than a swaddled infant in your mother’s arms, I could see how caring and empathetic you could be. Tony, you’re capable of so much love, so much goodness and kindness. The intensity with which you care for everyone around you, it’s truly astounding. It isn’t your shortcomings that caused those relationships to fail, they simply didn’t work. It was out of your control.”

Tony is silent for a moment. “It should have been,” he finally says.

Jarvis _definitely_ snorts this time. “Honestly, Sir,” he says, but it’s fond. “If you really, truly work for it, you can have anything you put your mind to. What you _really_ need to decide is if this young man is worth the risk involved.”

Tony doesn’t have an answer for that, but he’s pretty sure Jarvis isn’t looking for one.

“Now,” Jarvis says, sniffing a little to stiffen his upper lip or something. “Tell me more about your young man.”

And Tony, despite his better judgement, does. He tells Jarvis about Steve being from Brooklyn, how he’d planned to go to art school, how they’d met just before Steve had shipped out overseas, how Steve had been a P.O.W. He tells Jarvis about literally running into Steve on the sidewalk in front of a Starbucks. About the dry karaoke bar. About Ultimate Frisbee, and all the rest of it.

When he’s done, and they end the call, Tony feels better. He still doesn’t know what to do about Steve, but he feels, maybe, like he might be in a better position to decide.

 

+++++

 

It’s a couple more weeks before he hears from Steve. He tries not to read anything into it – sure, they had basically been texting more or less every day for months. But they weren’t meaningful texts. Tony would text Steve a picture of something ridiculous in the workshop, and Steve would reply back with a picture of something ridiculous in Brooklyn – which, as it happened, there was no shortage of in Brooklyn. Steve would text Tony to ask what he was working on, and Tony would send a photo of the complex circuitry involved in the latest version of the prosthetic limb he’s been working on. Steve would reply with, _It appears to run on some kind of electricity_ , and Tony would burst out laughing no matter where he was.

Tony knows he’s well and truly fucked.

And then the stupid, stupid karaoke thing had happened, and Steve ran out like Tony had actually just stripped and laid down on the table in front of him (which, maybe, would have been _more_ subtle), and Tony doesn’t hear from him until the middle of December.

When he does, it’s an invitation.

_Hey. So, Nat and Bucky went to Colorado with Clint to go skiing, wanna come over and watch a movie?_

Tony stares at his phone for a long moment before he picks it up and types out a message.

It’s not a reply to Steve – it’s a text to Rhodey.

_Steve invited me for a movie._

_OK?_ Rhodey texts back.

_We haven’t talked for 2 weeks._

_That would probably be because you serenaded him with Sinead O’Connor._

_I did not SERENADE him_.

Rhodey sends a horse emoji and a poop emoji – there’s no accompanying message.

_Look, the point is, he asked me to come over and watch a movie._

_What did you tell him?_

Tony grimaces to himself a little. _I haven’t answered?_

The phone vibrates in his hand, and it’s Rhodey calling him.

“Hi, sorry, no Tony here, you have a wrong number,” Tony says when he thumbs the button to connect the call.

“Tony, you have to stop this,” Rhodey tells him over the line. “You love this guy. You’ve always loved this guy. You can’t keep trying to keep him at arm’s length and pining over him at the same time.”

“Give me some credit, Rhodey,” Tony starts.

“No. No, I don’t think I will,” Rhodey says, his voice rising in pitch. “I have been giving you credit for, what, 10 years? 15? And you are still pining over Steve Rogers. A man who, moments ago, invited you to go and see a movie with him.”

“Well, actually, he’s got the apartment to himself so he invited me there to watch a movie.”

“Oh my _GOD_ ,” Rhodey crows. “You literally got a ‘Netflix and Chill’ text from the man you’ve been in love with since you were 18 years old and you’re _on the fence_?”

“I was 19! And it’s not that simple!” Tony argues.

“Oh, it’s that simple,” Rhodey says, then his voice softens. “I don’t understand where you’ve got this idea that you aren’t good enough for him. Tony, you _are_. You’re fierce and loyal and brave and brilliant and generous, and if he _doesn’t_ love you then he’s an idiot who _definitely_ doesn’t deserve _you_.”

“Aw, honeycrisp,” Tony says, trying to keep his tone light so he can mask the sudden swell of emotion in his chest. He doesn’t think anyone has ever said anything so kind to him.

“Don’t, man,” Rhodey warns.

“Run away with me,” Tony tells him, a grin playing at his lips. “Forget Pepper – which I notice we’re still not talking about – and be my sugarbear instead.”

“ _If_ there was something going on between me and Pepper – and I am neither confirming nor denying that – she would skin us both without breaking a sweat.”

Tony blinks. “That’s true. I take it back. Please don’t let her kill me.”

“Text your boy,” Rhodey says, his voice gentle again. “Go watch a movie. Talk about what you want, talk about what he wants – just stop running away from this. You have a real chance to be happy.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Tony says. “You’re a pal.”

“What I am is infinitely patient,” Rhodey tells him, then hangs up the phone without saying goodbye. It’s a habit they have now – Tony tries not to think about the fact that they do it because Tony has heard ‘goodbye’ too many times in his life, and can’t stand it from Rhodey. Even if it is only temporary.

He stares at his phone for a long moment, then types out a reply to Steve.

_Can I bring anything?_

_Chinese food? It’s supposed to snow pretty bad tonight, seems like a chinese and netflix kinda night._

_I’ll be there around 7._

_Great! See you then!_

Tony stares at his phone. Maybe Rhodey’s right.

 

+++++

 

By the time he gets to Brooklyn, he’s changed his mind again. Rhodey’s an idiot, and he doesn’t know anything about Tony or Steve or their friendship.

Tony takes a cab because it’s already snowing, and he doesn’t want to put any of his cars through New York’s snow-covered streets. He’s got the takeout chinese food, and he tips the driver well for having to come out in the snow. He hits the buzzer on the front door of the building, and waits for Steve to click him through.

The door makes a noise as the locks disengage, and Tony heads up the three floors to the apartment.

It’s pretty roomy for an apartment in Brooklyn. This is actually the first time Tony’s been here. He’s been outside, on the street, but he’s never been inside. Steve gives him the nickel tour, then spreads the takeout containers over the coffee table in front of the couch.

“So, skiing? How come you didn’t go?” Tony asks, sitting down on the sofa and leaning back. It’s not particularly comfortable. The back is too short, and the seats are too firm.

Steve shrugs a little, not meeting Tony’s eyes as he continues to arrange the food. “Eh, it’s not great for my leg,” he admits. “It tends to ache a little more when it’s cold.”

“Ah,” Tony says, not sure if Steve would accept any comfort from him. He changes the subject instead. “So, what are we watching?”

Steve smiles at him then, and it’s brilliant and blinding and Tony should have known better than to come here and look at Steve when there’s nothing he can do about it.

“I was thinking some Star Wars?”

Tony grins. “I can always, always watch some Star Wars.”

“I remember,” Steve says, his cheeks flushing a little. “You used to say they were the only movies you could watch over and over again without getting sick of them.”

“And I stand by it,” Tony agrees, ignoring the little thrill that gives him. That Steve would remember that.

“Old or new?” Steve asks him.

“Surprise me,” Tony says. “Unless that surprise is Jar Jar Binks. Because then we’re going to have a problem.”

Steve laughs, and cues up Rogue One on Netflix. They dig into their food, and they watch the movie.

 

+++++

 

It’s comfortable and easy. The movie is good, but more than that, just being in the same space as Steve is easy. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, but by the end of the movie Steve has sprawled enough that, even though they aren’t quite touching, Tony can feel the heat of Steve’s leg on his skin.

When the credits start rolling, Steve lets out a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Guess I should take that as my cue,” Tony says with a grin. Steve honestly looks adorable, all mussed and sleepy and comfortable. It makes Tony’s heart flutter a little in his chest.

“You don’t have to,” Steve says, struggling to sit up properly. “I’m not – it’s fine, I’m not tired.”

He yawns again, and Tony laughs.

Steve looks a little sheepish. Tony stands up and stretches, arms over his head, bowing his back a little. He helps Steve clean up the detritus of their meal, and then he heads toward the entryway, where his coat is hanging on the coat rack beside the door. As he’s shrugging it on, Steve moves toward the window and glances out.

“Holy shit,” he says after a moment, before turning and blinking at Tony.

“What?” Tony asks.

“You know how it was snowing earlier?”

“Sure.”

“Well… it got worse.”

Tony moves toward the window as well, and looks out at the street.

It has snowed more than a foot since they’ve been watching the movie. The street outside is dark and empty, and there aren’t even any tire tracks on the street.

“It’s so quiet,” Tony says, his voice hushed a little.

“You didn’t drive here, did you?” Steve asks him. Tony shakes his head.

“No, I didn’t feel like driving in the snow. I took a cab.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at him. “I don’t think you’re getting a cab home tonight,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Tony replies. “It’s New York. Of course I’m getting a cab.”

Steve snorts. “You’re really not. There’s no way the cabs are out slogging their way through that.”

Tony purses his lips and stares at the snowy street. If he can’t get a cab, how the hell is he supposed to get home?

“Well, you might as well stay here,” Steve says after a moment of silence.

“Oh, I couldn’t –”

“Really, Tony, it’s fine. Better off staying here than going out there.” He jerks his chin at the window, where the wind has picked up and is making it snow sideways now, up the street.

Tony glares at it, annoyed when it doesn’t all melt so he can go home.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to stay at Steve’s. The problem is that he would _love_ to stay at Steve’s. Just not the way Steve thinks.

“Okay, fine,” Tony sighs.

“Good. You can have my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Steve says, moving toward a closet in the hallway. He pulls out a pillow and a couple of blankets.

“Um, what?” Tony says, blinking rapidly.

“Hm? I said I can take the couch,” he repeats.

“Oh, no, I heard you, but… why?”

Steve tilts his head and gives Tony a look that appears to question his intelligence. “So… you can have the bed?” He sounds like he’s not even sure that’s the correct answer, which is good, because Tony thinks it’s really fucking not.

“You’re serious right now.”

Steve stares at him like he’s got three heads. He aborts his answer a couple of times before finally deciding on “Yes.”

“You… okay, Steve, I know it’s been like, 10 years or whatever, but, I mean, you do remember we used to sleep together, right?”

“Well, yeah, but that was –”

“That was you and I, having sex, naked and in the same bed and everything.” Suddenly, Tony is inexplicably angry. “You know what, Rogers, I _get_ that things are different now – I know you’ve been through a lot, and I know you’re, like, a war hero and stuff, and I also understand full well that I’m not what you’re looking for in a partner, but that doesn’t mean you have to give up your bed and sleep on the _couch_.”

Steve’s face scrunches up in confusion and then, matching anger, but Tony cuts off any attempt to argue and keeps going.

“If you don’t want to share a bed with me – just sharing a bed for sleep, we’ve talked about this and we’re just _friends_ – then _I_ will take the fucking couch, because this couch is entirely too short for you to sleep on and I’m not taking your fucking _bed_ just because you can’t handle the idea of having to share it with me for one goddamned night.”

By the time he finishes, he’s breathing hard and he’s on the verge of shouting. Steve steps in close, hands balled in fists, and gets nose to nose with Tony.

“You know, Tony, I don’t know where you get off telling me _I’m_ the one who shouldn’t have a problem with this. _You’re_ the one who said we were just going to be friends and, and I’m trying, Tony, I really, really am. And I’m fine with it, I don’t want to, to _force_ you into any relationship you don’t want.”

“Steve –”

“Oh, no,” Steve cuts him off. “You had your turn, now it’s mine. You said friends, so we’re friends, and that’s good, Tony, that’s really good, but I can’t – I can’t share a bed with you, can’t get that close – I can’t get that close and not have you, Tony, I just really fucking can’t.”

He’s panting now, too, and Tony stares at him, cheeks red and flushed, eyes bright and blue and flashing with heat, and, and, what the fuck is _wrong_ with him? He’s been saying no to this and he doesn’t have to –

Later, neither of them will be able to say who surged forward first – they met directly in the middle, mouths fusing hotly together in a ragged, rough, possessive kiss. Steve’s hands instantly go to the sides of Tony’s neck, gripping him and holding him steady as Steve’s tongue slips into Tony’s mouth, licking and tasting at him insistently. Tony’s hands claw into the sides of Steve’s waist, trying to pull them as close together as possible, and a stuttering groan works its way out of his chest.

Steve’s hands glide down to Tony’s chest, down to the hem of his T-shirt, and then he’s frantically pulling at it, trying to strip Tony topless. Tony pulls his mouth away and raises his arms, and Steve wastes no time yanking the offending garment off him, then he’s back, plundering Tony’s mouth while his warm, calloused hands deliriously glide over skin, trying to touch Tony’s chest and back and belly all at once.

Tony’s hard, aching already, and he grinds his hips forward. It makes Steve’s breath catch, makes his fingers dig into Tony’s skin, and then Steve is walking Tony backwards, not breaking the kiss as he pushes Tony toward the bedroom.

Tony reaches for the bottom of Steve’s T-shirt, starts pulling at it, and gets it halfway up, baring Steve’s delicious, ridiculous abs and then suddenly the room tilts, spins, and Tony is being roughly pushed away from Steve, torn away, and Steve is taking two steps back, grabbing at his shirt to pull it back down and looking horrified.

Tony blinks stupidly at him, lips tingling, brain fogged with lust and confusion. He licks his lips, tries to figure out what just happened.

“We _can’t_ ,” Steve moans, and he sounds destroyed, ruined by that knowledge.

Tony swallows, his throat thick. “Right,” he croaks. “Right, no, of course – we just – of course we can’t,” he agrees, trying to get his brain back online.

Except… they had, once. Hadn’t they?

“But we could – we did. Before. We were friends, but we – we were friends with benefits,” he says, still blinking. His hand goes to his face, and he can’t help himself from touching his fingers to his lips, kiss swollen and slick. “We could do that again.”

Steve looks at him, and then suddenly he looks so sad, so defeated. “I can’t, Tony. I – you asked me if we could just be friends, and I agreed to that, but… I’m not that kid anymore that thinks I can just turn off my emotions. It didn’t work then, not really. And it won’t work now.” He scrubs a hand through his hair viciously, taking a deep breath. “God, Tony. I was in love with you before I even left town, it was like falling into a bright, perfect bottomless pit, tumbling in head over feet, and I – if you don’t want to be with me, that’s fine. I can live with that. But I can’t live with just having a _part_ of you like that. It’s gotta be all in, one way or another.”

Tony stares at him dumbly. Steve had been in love with him? No, he must have heard that wrong. Steve had – really?

“No, Steve, you don’t understand, I’m – there is no ‘all in’ with me. I’m – I’m not relationship material. I’m – I’m a complete disaster, Steve, you don’t want –”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Steve insists.

“You _can’t_ ,” Tony insists. “Don’t you get it? I’m – I’m the kind of guy you fuck, Steve, not the kind of guy you – you date. I’m a mess, I’m an addict, I’m not worth sticking around for –”

“Yes, you are,” Steve interrupts.

“Steve – I – we can’t.” Tony feels his eyes go hot, but he’s not going to cry – he hasn’t cried about Steve Rogers in years, and he’s not going to start again now. “I can’t handle it again if you leave.”

He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Tony…”

“Listen, I should go,” Tony says, grabbing his coat. “I’ll – I’ll call the car service, they can –”

“Tony,” Steve tries again. “Tony, I wouldn’t –”

“You say that now, Steve, but I’m trying to warn you, eventually you’ll want to go, you won’t want me around anymore, and I can’t… I can’t do that again.” He can hear the bitterness in his own voice.

Steve looks at him for a long moment. “Tony,” he finally says. “Tony, I love you. I’ve… I’ve always loved you.”

And Tony wants to leave now, he wants to get out of this apartment, anything to get away from these words, from the look on Steve’s face. Determined and soft and fierce.

“Every day in that hellhole, I thought about getting through it, surviving it so I could come home to you. So I could see your face and touch you and kiss you and tell you _I love you_.”

“You’ll leave!” Tony says, his voice loud and hoarse. “You’ll leave, just like everyone else – you left, and my parents left, and then Ty and Rumiko – God, Steve, I can’t lose you again! I had to live through you _dying_.”

“I’m right here,” Steve says, his voice gentle. He steps forward, closing the distance between them, and takes Tony’s face in his hands gently. “Tony, I came back. I came back and I’m right here and I’ll never leave again.”

“You can’t promise that,” Tony murmurs, but he feels it blossoming in his chest, a feeling like hope.

“I can and I will,” Steve returns, stubborn and determined.

And then, suddenly, he feels a tear fall. He hasn’t cried since – well, it’s been years.

“We were just stupid kids, then,” he whispers.

“Then we won’t make the same mistake twice,” Steve tells him, leaning down so his mouth is only inches away from Tony’s. He pauses there, and Tony can feel Steve’s breath ghosting across his face.

“I loved you then,” Tony admits, feeling another tear fall. “I’ve spent my whole life missing you.”

“You don’t have to anymore,” Steve promises, and finally, _finally_ , Tony believes him. He surges forward, closing the distance between them and kisses Steve, hotly, wetly. Steve wraps him up in big, strong arms, pulls him close to his body so they’re touching from chest to knees, and kisses him back as though he needs it to live.

Tony pulls back when he needs to breathe, and Steve peppers kisses across his face, over his forehead and down his jaw, over his cheeks. He whispers “I love you” over and over, between kisses, and Tony shivers, feeling his whole body alight with it.

He reaches for Steve’s shirt again, pulls at it, and Steve pulls back. Tony blinks. “What…?”

“Wait,” Steve says at the same time.

Tony swallows. Had Steve already changed his mind? He thinks that might be a fucking record.

Steve steps forward again and clutches Tony by the shoulders, and then, as though reading the doubt in Tony’s expression, he shakes his head. “It’s not – I just. There are… scars. From… from when they whipped me. They’re – it’s not pretty.”

Tony stares at him.

“Wait, is that – is that why you stopped me before, too?”

Steve shrugs one shoulder, looking guilty. “Yeah. I’m not – I’m not real comfortable, um, showing them.”

God. Of all the stupid – for Steve, this amazing, gorgeous, perfect human being who had survived hell and then a worse version of hell… for Steve to be worried about a few scars on his back? Tony can’t even fathom it.

He cups the side of Steve’s face with his hand. “I love you, Steve. You’re – you’re amazing. If you don’t want to show me, that’s fine, I understand, but I won’t – I won’t mind. I promise, I won’t.”

Steve looks away, down at the floor, fidgeting, and then, as though trying to do it quickly so he doesn’t have time to talk himself out of it, he pulls back and whips his shirt off over his head.

There’s nothing to see in the front – just Steve’s hard, muscled shoulders, his rippling abs, his defined pecs. Rosy pink nipples, the same as they’ve always been. But then, Steve turns, and Tony can’t hold back a gasp.

His back is a patchwork of scars, thick and jagged. Raised lines, criss-crossing, tumbling over one another. Some are puckered up, and others are like little crevices in the skin. Steve’s once smooth, muscled back is now a sea of white and red scar tissue, horrible lines that stand out starkly.

Steve’s shoulders round, as though he’s trying to hunch in on himself, while Tony stares. He realizes his shock – his _rage_ at what they did to him – is being taken the wrong way, so he steps forward, carefully, slowly laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder blade. He leans forward and presses a soft, light kiss to the top knob of Steve’s spine, and a light shudder goes through his body.

“I love you,” Tony tells him, forcing the words out. He means them, of course he does. He means them more than he’s ever meant anything in his life. But saying it, especially now, with Steve’s scarred back displayed for him, feels so vulnerable, Tony’s not sure what to do with it.

He brushes another kiss on Steve’s back, then another and another, until he’s brushing light kisses all over every square inch of it, and Steve is panting, his lungs sounding tight and rough, like he’s in pain. Tony just wants to soothe him, just wants to take it all away, every hateful, horrible thing they did to him.

“I love you,” he says again, sliding his hands over Steve’s shoulders and turning him around, so they’re face to face again. Steve’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes big and wet. “I love you, and you’re beautiful.”

Steve leans his head down so their foreheads meet, just looking deeply into Tony’s eyes for a moment, before he leans forward and kisses him. This time, it’s not nearly so rough and hurried. It’s still just as possessive, a deep, slow, _searching_ kiss, and Tony returns it in kind, trying to pour all his emotion into it. His love, his joy, his need, even the visceral hatred he feels that anyone had ever dared to put a hand on his Steve.

Tony wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, keeping him close, and gently pulls himself back, just enough so he can whisper against Steve’s skin.

“Take me to bed,” he says.

Steve doesn’t answer, just locks his wrists just under the curve of Tony’s ass, skin hot even through the denim of his jeans, and lifts him up off his feet. He raises Tony up until Tony’s the one who has to bend his neck down to keep the kiss going, and then they’re moving, Steve walking them through the apartment to his bedroom.

When they get to the bed, Steve sets him down gently, not breaking the kiss even as he kneels beside the bed, chest in between Tony’s spread knees over the side.

They’re still kissing as Steve reaches down and pulls at Tony’s socks, unbuttons his jeans and starts to tug. Tony helps as much as he can, by lifting his hips up off the bed so his jeans and underwear can get out of the fucking way already, and then he’s naked, bare ass resting on the soft cotton of Steve’s bed spread.

He leans his body forward, still kissing Steve, and tries to get at the fly of Steve’s jeans. He fumbles with it for a moment because the angle is shit, and then Steve stands up, presses Tony back and down onto the bed as he works his jeans off his hips.

“It’s been – god, you’re still gorgeous – it’s been awhile,” Steve mumbles into his skin, kissing his way down Tony’s neck.

“Oh, god, I don’t care,” Tony says back, hands roaming everywhere they can reach.

And then they’re skin to skin, and Tony can feel Steve hard against his hip, his skin hot and smooth and perfect. He moans as Steve’s chest hair rubs across his nipple, as Steve’s hands slide down to wrap around Tony’s waist. His hands are so big, and his thumbs smooth down the lines of Tony’s hips, brushing over his hip bones. Tony digs his heels into the bed and tips his hips up, trying to get more pressure and friction against his cock, and Steve lets out a whimpering moan into Tony’s mouth.

The vibration makes his lips tingle, and Tony reaches up to tangle his hands in Steve’s hair, pulling to angle his head so Tony can kiss him deeper, more fully.

Steve starts to move above him, just an easy, rocking rhythm that’s making Tony gasp with pleasure. His cock is rubbing against Steve’s, and they’re both hard, pressed between the soft skin and hard muscle of their bellies.

“Oh, god, Steve,” Tony gasps when Steve starts to trail kisses down his jawline, nipping at Tony’s goatee.

“I love this,” Steve murmurs. “The beard. God, Tony, when I saw it on you I thought I was going to jump you right there.”

Tony rattles a shaky breath, fingers clutching desperately into Steve’s shoulders. He can feel the scars there, but he doesn’t care, barely registers it. All he can think is how good it feels, how amazing Steve tastes and smells and feels.

He slides a hand down Steve’s chest, to his hip, to his ass, to the back of his thigh, trying to pull and scrabble at Steve to increase his tempo. His hand brushes a divot of a scar on Steve’s leg, and he knows deep in his bones that this, _this_ is the wound that almost killed him, almost took Steve out of his life for real. It wrenches at something inside him, some screaming part of his brain, and he cries out, grabbing at Steve and shoving him over, rolling them so Tony’s on top, and then Tony’s lining them up again, cocks together, side by side. He wraps one hand around them both, glad that Steve’s cock is sloppy and wet with precome, because that means they don’t need to stop for lube, and he starts thrusting, jerking his hips faster, fucking into the tunnel he’d made with his fist. His cock slides along Steve’s, catching every once in awhile on the slick head, and Steve is crying out with each slide forward, both hands cradling Tony’s head to keep their mouths together.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time, but it’s _Steve_ , and god, Tony had missed this – missed _him._ Before long, Tony’s hips are pistoning faster, Steve’s cries are getting louder, and Tony can feel his balls draw up, feels his toes start to tingle and curl. He tenses, his whole body spasming and his vision whiting out as he comes, comes harder than he has in years from a little frottage like a teenager, but he doesn’t fucking care because halfway through his orgasm, Steve cries out, too, throwing his head back, breaking the kiss and gulping in great lungfuls of air. He’s coming, Tony can feel the head of his cock twitching and spurting against the sensitive skin of his belly, and he keeps thrusting, trying to draw it out, trying to make Steve feel every bit of love and need and want he can give.

Eventually, he slows down, his heart pounding in his chest. He can feel Steve’s pounding as well, and when he slits his eyes open a little he can see the vein in the side of his neck throbbing in time with the beat of it.

They’re sweaty, and they’re slick and sticky with come. Tony dazedly lifts his head taking in Steve’s flushed cheeks, his swollen lips, his dark, open eyes.

“I love you so much,” Steve whispers against the skin of Tony’s shoulder, lifting his head to press a kiss there. “God, Tony, I never thought – I never thought I’d get to have this again.”

“Well, we _were_ both being pretty stupid,” Tony admits, shifting his weight to slide off Steve a little so he can roll off him, onto his back.

“Mostly you,” Steve sighs, tilting his head so it can rest against Tony’s shoulder again.

“Mostly me,” Tony agrees. “I promise to go back to being a genius again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. Soon as I find the brain cells you just fucked out of me.”

Steve snorts with amusement. “Take your time,” he says, nipping at Tony’s shoulder. “I can wait.”

“Yeah,” Tony sighs contentedly. “Me, too.”

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter: [I'm right here](https://i.imgur.com/JR0lNxX.jpg) by sleepyoceanprince.
> 
>  

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't already, go give the artists some love, they both did such amazing work.
> 
> [Art by deruzard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702213) (remember it's spoilery!)
> 
> [Art by sleepyoceanprince](http://sleepyoceanprince.tumblr.com/post/167430486768/this-is-for-the-2017-cap-im-big-bang-and-thus-for) (again, spoilers!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for 'Head Over Feet'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702213) by [deruzard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deruzard/pseuds/deruzard)




End file.
